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THE 


LIFE  AND  POEMS 


OK 


Sarah  T.  Bolton 


•••-tfjloG>fv3-**' ^ 


Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur  istis; 
Nee  niea  Letha;is  scripta  dabuntiir  aqiiis. 


-Ovidius. 


ILLUSTRATED, 


i^iA. 


INDIANAPOLIS: 

FRED.  L.  HORTON  &  CO. 


COPYRIGHT, 

SARJlH  T.  BOLTON  REESE.  j^ 

MARCH  30,  ISSO.  "X^ 


a: 


FRANK  II.  HMITH,  l*rlRl«r.   hi  IUn«|>all«. 
KSTCHUM  *  WAKAMAKKR.  Ki<s  troirp«ra 


rv 


•••  ,».        •    •  •  • 

•    •••••*»■ 

•    •  •  ••  •••  «•••••  •       •     •  ^*V^ 

•••  •  ••  •  ,••  •    t 


TO-  ~ 

OF     INDIANAPOLIS, 
In  Gratitude  for  his  Assistance,  and  Appreciation  of  his  Talents^ 

THIS   VOLUME   IS  INSCRIBED. 


V 


VI 


ki  l-l  Lri  i^i  l.-i  l.-i  Iq  l.-i  (.-5  \r^  Ir,  1.-,  n  L-\  ^^ 


xo  Ai»i>ENi>ix:. 

Title Ill 

Copyright IV 

Dedication — (Inscription) V 

Index  to  Appendix VI I 

Index  to  Poems VII 

Index  to  Illustrations XII 

The  Life  of  Sarah  T.  Bolton XIII 

TO    I»OE»IS» 

A  Christmas  Story 822 

A  Day  at  Ouchy,  on  Lake  Leman 161 

A  Farmer's  Protest 330 

A  Letter 397 

Alp  Land 108 

An  Hour  in  Mr.  Cox's  Studio 105 

Anecdote  of  Horace  Greeley 471 

An  Ode — Laying  Corner  Stone  of  Masonic  Hall 319 

A  Pioneer  Grandmother  -)1 

A  Plea  for  My  Farm  Life 515 

A  Reply 481 

A  Scene  in  Ireland 440 

A  Street  Arab's  Prayer 408 

A  Tale  of  Chamouni 132 

At  Rest 31G 

A  Vision 412 

Awake  to  Effort 54 

Away  to  the  Battle  of  Life 463 

VII 


INDEX. 

Baby  Nettie 418 

Call  the  Roll 407 

Centennial  Ode 492 

Colonel  James  P.  Drakr 234 

Coming  Home 73 

Corinne  to  Oswald 399 

Could  Wo? 476 

Dead 129 

Death  of  Col.  D.  B.  Moe 295 

Dedication  Ode 176 

Diodati 288 

Doubt 194 

Edgar  A.  Poe 213 

Genius  and  Talent 447 

Germany 75 

Going  Down  the  Hill 94 

Gone — Judge  James  Morrison 85 

Harris's  Mirror  of  Intemperance 310 

He  is  Gone 222 

Henry  Clay 370 

I  can  not  Call  Her  Mother 366 

I  can  not  Choose  but  Sing 304 

If  I  were  the  Light  of  the  Brightest  Stm- 170 

Indiana 380 

Infanticide 218 

In  M<nnoriam — Joseph  Y.  Linglf 275 

In  Memory  of  a  Pioneer oS'J 

In  the  Quiet  Summer  Twilight 544 

Invocation 261 

Invocation  to  the  West  Wind 395 

John  B.  Norman 182 

John  Baptisto  Ritzingcr 358 

Judith  and  Holofwncs 377 

Kindred  Spirit* 192 

l4ike  Leman 51 

Laying  the  Comer  Stone  of  u  .\.  >>'|Mi|»<>r  Offiro 388 

Leaving  Switzerland 506 

VIII 


INDEX. 

Le  Chateau  De  Pregney 530 

Left  on  the  Battlefield 121 

Legend  of  Chateau  Chene gy 

Legend  of  the  Castle  Monnetier 5g 

Leoline 7 

Let  us  be  Glad  While  we  May IG5 

Life 298 

Life's  Changes 270 

Little  Ralph 196 

Little  Robert  Churchman 384 

Living  Memories 209 

Lofty  and  Lowly 240 

Lost 207 

Love 497 

Married  a  Year 185 

March 336 

Miss  Martha  McClure 440 

Mrs.  Mary  Malott  Fletcher 137 

Mrs.  Melissa  Goldsberry  Downie 478 

Mont  Blanc 44 

Morning  Land  of  Life 239 

Moses's  Last  Look  over  the  Hills 485 

My  Daughter 521 

My  House 368 

My  Picture 333 

Note  the  Bright  Hours  Only 245 

One  Night  in  a  Lifetime 444 

Only  a  "Woman 91 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Louisa  Wright 503 

Paddle  Your  Own  Canoe 277 

Poems  Written  in  Geneva  in  1855 1*^6 

Poems  Written  in  Geneva  in  1875 1^7 

Prefatory 3 

Professor  Morse ^21 

Ralph  Farnham's  Dream ^'^ 

Randolph  Stephen  Roache 283 

Remorse ^^'^ 

IX 


INDEX. 

Seventy-One 116 

Shall  "NVe  Kn<  .'nds  in  Heuvt-n  ? 78 

She  Found  Hi.      .- 199 

Slander 263 

Spring 124 

Stella  to  Her  Lovor 158 

T.  H.  Bowles 465 

The  Bridal 537 

The  Children  of  Suinnur 485 

The  Dead 150 

The  Doctor's  Story 99 

The  End 391 

The  Grave  of  Calvin  Fletcher 404 

The  Iron  Horse 71 

The  Land  over  the  liiver 438 

The  Last  Night 228 

The  Last  Supper  of  the  Girondists 153 

The  Lai^t  Words  of  Hon.  Daniel  D.  Pratt 527 

The  Little  Hero— Joseph  R.  T.  Gordon 300 

The  Miracle  of  Nain 424. 

The  Mother-in-T.aw 414 

The  Murderer 409 

The  News  of  a  Day 307 

The  Pastor 339 

The  Pestilence 96 

The  Sewing  Girl 362 

TheSnowflake 224 

The  Story  of  th.  oil  Oak  of  Elm  Cr  i: 546 

The  Tenement  House 81 

The  Union 64 

The  Wreck  of  the  Central  America 430 

They  Met 189 

To  Ada 499 

Toa  Friend 147 

To  a  Friend  (Miss  Maria  KiUingerj 509 

Toa  Poet 140 

To  Geneva 174 

X 


INDEX. 

To  Little  Baptiste  Ritzinger ' 257 

To  Mary 112 

To  Miss  Elise  Malegue 501 

To  Miss  Esther  Malegue :,}•_; 

To  Miss  Lou  M.  Rankin j,;; 

To  Miss  Mary  Love I'.st, 

To  Mis.  Love— On  Receiving  her  Picture,  Dec.  25,  1871 I'jl 

To  Mrs.  P.  H.  Drake 512 

To  Mrs.  R.  Swain,  M.  D 473 

To  Mrs.  William  J.  Brown 248 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  O.  B.  R ,  on  their  Marriage 292 

To  My  Traveling  Shoes 454 

To  Our  Tetie 88 

To  the  Arve  at  its  Junction  with  the  Rhone 47 

To  the  Flowers , 489 

To  the  Lady  of  Glen  Myla 5;U 

To  the  Memory  of  Gen.  T.  A.  Howard 460 

To  the  Parents  of  Little  Carrie  Ray 524 

Two  Graves 178 

Two  Scenes 167 

TJlik,  and  the  King  of  Pandemonium 326 

Union  Forever 280 

War 172 

Waiting  and  Weaving 202 

What  Saith  the  Voice? 143 

Where  is  Thy  Home,Xove? 427 

Why  the  Blush  Rose  is  Imperfect 232 


M: 


XI 


^^iLMsniR^n^ieNg.- 


Artist.  Page. 

Portrait — Sarah  T.  Bolton John  Sartain Frontispiece 

Initial— "  Inspiration  " Alfred  Fredericks 1 

Leoline ./.  D.  Smillie 14 

The  Pitti  Gardens ./.  D.  Smillie 22 

Left  on  the  Battlefield Jacob  Cox 120 

Lost — "  She  Sat  Alone  on  a  Cold  Gray  Stone"...  ya^^j^^  Cox 206 

The  Pioneer  Grandmother IV.  J.  Hennessy,  N.  A...  252 

•♦The  Little  Hero" H.  C.  Chandler. 300 

Ralph  Farnham's  Dream Felix  0.  C.  Barley,  N.  A  874 

School  Life W.  WJiittredge,  N.  A...  441 

The  Children  of  Summer A.  D.Shattuck,  N.  A...  486 

Twilight,  "  Under  the  Beeches" ./  McEntee,  N.  A 519 

Summer  Twilight Alfred  Fredericks 545 

The  Old  Oak  of  Elm  Crofl William  Hart,  N.  A,..,  647 


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•>fIiIEEv0K-f> 


►^•^^i^^H-i-T.-BeiiTON.-?^ 


ARAH  TITTLE  BARRETT,  THE  ELDEST  CHILD  OF 

her  parents,  Jonathan  B.  Barrett  and  Esther  Pendleton 
^  Barrett,  is  a  native  of  Kentucky.  She  was  born  at 
Newport,  in  that  State,  December  18, 1814.  She  is  well 
descended  on  the  part  of  both  her  parents,  several  of 
her  ancestors  bearing  names  distinguished  in  the  history 
of  the  country  for  ability  and  patriotic  services  in  the 
War  of  Independence.  Among  these  stands  her  pater- 
nal grandfather,  Lemuel  Barrett,  He  was  an  English- 
man, who,  with  a  brother,  early  emigrated  to  America. 
He  settled  in  what  was  then  the  province  of  Novum- 
Caesarea,  or  New  Jersey,  where  he  soon  found  employ- 
ment in  the  service  of  the  Government.  He  continued 
in  this  service  several  j'ears — how  long  exactly,  it  is 
impossible,  from  any  data  in  the  hands  of  the  family, 
to  say.  His  first  commission  is  a  curious  old  fashioned 
document,  addressed  to  "  Lemuel  Barrett,  Gentleman," 
"by  His  Excellency  Jonathan  Belcher.  Esq.,  Captain 
General  and  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Province  of 
Novum  Cgesarea,  or  New  Jersey,  and  the  territories 
thereon  depending,  in  America,  Chancellor  and  Vice 
Admiral  in  the  same,"  etc.  It  then  proceeds  to  set 
forth  the  fact  that  the  Governor  did  nominate,  consti- 


xrrr 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

tute  and  appoint  "said  Lemuel  Barrett,  First  Lieutenant  of  a  company  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  men,  now  on  the  frontiers  of  this  Colony,  and 
commanded  by  Col.  Jacob  Doherty."  It  is  dated  "  at  Elizabethtown,  in 
New  Jersey,  the  sixteenth  day  of  June,  in  the  twenty-sixth  year  of  His 
Majesty's  reign,  Annoque  Domini,  1754."  This  old  commission  carries 
us  back  to  the  reign  of  George  the  Second;  and  is  contemporaneous  with 
Braddock's  defeat.  He  was  promoted  to  the  rank  of  Captain,  December 
12.  1755.  His  promotion  made  him  "Captain  over  a  company  of  soldiers 
in  the  militia  belonging  to  the  north  part  of  Newtown."  His  company 
•was  part  of  the  battalion  under  command  of  Col.  Abraham  Vincamper. 
He  received  still  another  commission  from  Governor  Belcher,  a  little  less 
than  a  year  later.  It  gave  him  command  of  a  company  of  volunteers, 
raised  for  some  special  service,  but  the  precise  nature  of  this  service  it  is 
now  impossible  to  say,  owing  to  the  obliteration  of  a  line  of  the  document. 
How  long  ho  may  have  served  under  this  appointment  does  not  appear, 
and  we  have  no  means  of  determining.  It  is  certain  however,  that 
he  retained  the  highest  possible  regard  for  Governor  Belcher  as  long  as 
he  lived.  It  was  this,  no  doubt,  that  led  him  to  call  his  youngest  son  by 
the  name  of  his  distinguished  friend  and  early  patron ;  and  to  transmit, 
along  with  the  name,  a  part  of  his  own  deep  and  affectionate  gratitude. 
This,  it  has  been  said,  and  not  without  evidence,  led  the  eon  to  emigrate 
from  Kentucky,  and  settle  in  Indiana,  whose  Governor,  at  the  time,  was 
Jonathan  Jennings,  a  nephew ;  and,  like  himself,  a  namesake  of  Gover- 
nor Belcher.  It  is  quite  certain,  however  this  may  be,  that  as  soon  as  the 
younger  Barrett  arrived  in  Indiana,  he  and  Governor  Jennings  became 
fast  friends,  and  remained  such  as  long  as  the  Governor  lived.  In  August, 
1763,  wc  find  Captain  Barrett  in  the  Province  of  Pennsylvania,  duly 
commissioned  captain  of  a  company  of  woodmen,  or  hunters,  "by  Col. 
Henry  Bouquet,  Esquire,  Col.  of  Foot,  and  commanding  His  Majes- 
ty's troops  in  the  Southern  Department."  His  commission  bears  date 
"at  Fort  Bedford,  the  25th  day  of  July,  1768."  It  authorized  him  to 
raise  a  company  of  thirty  woodmen,  or  hunters;  fixes  their  pay  and 
allowances;  and  specifies  that  they  are  to  march  with  the  troops  under 
command  of  Col.  Bouquet  to  Fort  Pitt.  This  servit  e  was  faithfully  ren- 
dered; and  there  are  now,  along  with  Captain  Barrett's  commission,  com- 
plete plans  of  Fort  Pitt,  together  with  "a  sketch  of  Colonel  Bouquet's 
engagement  with  four  hundred  Indians,  near  Busby  liwi.  (Hh  Au-^ust, 

XIV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

1763."  In  this  engagement  Captain  Barrett  participated.  This  curious- 
old  sketch  is  very  quaint,  and  shows  the  battle  at  every  stage  of  it. 
The  royal  troops,  it  would  seem,  were  completely  victorious.  From  this 
time  on,  for  several  years,  we  have  no  memoranda  enabling  us  to  know 
what  he  was  doing.  His  next  commission  bears  date  nearly  eleven  years 
later.  It  is  the  evidence  of  his  appointment  as  "  Captain  of  the  Militia 
of  the  county  of  Augusta,  whereof  Charles  Lewis,  Esquire,  is  Lieutenant 
and  Commander,"  and  was  issued  by  "  John  Earl  of  Dunmore,  Viscount 
Fincastle,  Baron  Murray  of  Blair,  of  Morlin  and  Tillimet,  Lieutenant 
and  Governor  General  of  his  Majesty's  Colony  and  Dominion  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  Vice- Admiral  of  the  same."  One  is  surprised  at  the  extent  of 
the  authority  which  it  claims  for  his  lordship  ''to  appoint  all  officers, 
both  civil  and  military,"  in  the  colony.  It  bears  date  '-at  Williamsburg^ 
the  eighth  day  of  July,  and  in  the  fourteenth  year  of  His  Majesty's 
Eeign,  Anaoque  1774."  In  less  than  a  year  after  the  date  of  this  com- 
mission, the  colonies  had  come  to  an  open  rupture  with  Great  Britain; 
and,  January  5,  1776,  "the  Delegates  and  Freemen  of  Maryland,  in  con- 
vention," constituted  and  appointed  •'  Lemuel  Barrett,  Esquire,  Captain  of 
the  Sixth  Independent  Company  of  regular  troops  to  be  raised  in  this 
province  in  defence  of  the  liberties  thereof  "  Two  years  later,  ♦'  the  State 
of  Maryland  appointed  him  Colonel  of  the  Third,  or  AVestern  battalion 
of  Militia,  in  Washington  county."  His  commission  as  such  bears  date 
"  at  Annapolis,  the  16th  day  of  May,  Anno  Domini,  1778."  After  his  set- 
tlement in  Maryland,  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  the  Tittles,  a  dis- 
tinguished family;  and  becoming  attached  to  Sarah  Tittle,  the  beautiful 
and  accomplished  daughter  of  the  family,  won  her  affections  and  made 
her  his  wife.  Her  mother  appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able women  of  the  stormy  period  in  which  she  lived;  and  she  won  a  just 
title  to  the  grateful  remembrance  of  posterity  by  the  wise  and  constant 
exertion* of  very  superior  intelligence  and  ability,  with  great  zeal  and 
patriotism  in  the  cause  of  her  country's  liberty  and  independence.  Her 
house  was  a  rendezvous  for  patriots  in  the  darkest  hours  of  the  great 
struggle:  and  none  ever  remained  long  where  she  was  without  being 
inspired  with  new  hope  and  energy.  She  ranks  deservedly  with  the 
Warrens,  Elliotts  and  other  distinguished  women  of  her  own  times  and 
country.  The  family  resided  at  or  near  Hagerstown.  There,  too,  Colo- 
nel Barrett  and  his  young  wife  settled,  and  remained  until  after  the  birth 

XV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

of  their  youngest  child,  whon  they  removed  to  the  State  of  Kentucky, 
and  settled  on  a  farm  luur  Cynthiana.  Their  family  consisted  of  eight 
children— five  sons  and  three  daughters.  The  sons  were  named,  in  the 
order  of  their  birth,  Peter,  John,  Abner,  Lemuel  and  Jonathan  B.;  and 
the  dauglutr.-.  ^^■llie,  Susan  and  Beulah.  They  all  lived  to  become  the 
heads  of  families,  except  Lemuel,  who  died  when  a  lad  of  eighteen.  They 
were  all  endowed  with  rare  personal  beauty,  and  intellectual  powers; 
and  some  of  them  won  a  high  place  in  the  esteem  and  confidence  of  the 
public.  Their  father  survived  until  1814,  when  he  died  on  his  farm,  not 
of  old  age,  but  of  a  wound  received  in  the  War  of  Independence,  at  the 
ripe  age  of  ninety-two  years.  His  wife  survived  him  but  a  few  years, 
dying  at  the  residence  of  her  youngest  son  in  Newport,  Kentucky,  at  the 
age  of  sixty-two  years. 

Jonathan  Belcher  Barrett,  the  youngest  son  of  Lemuel  Barrett  and 
Sarah  Titib-  Barrett,  married  Esther  Pendleton,  the  daughter  of  James 
Pendleton,  who  was  a  member  of  the  distinguished  Virginia  family 
of  that  name;  and  a  first  cousin  and  classmate  of  President  James 
Madison.  Thus,  while  it  is  not  known  that  Mr.  Pendleton  con- 
tributed to  the  high  distinction  of  his  name,  it  is  quite  certain  that 
scarcely  another  name  in  his  native  State  was  more  illustrious  for 
great  and  distinguished  public  services  to  the  grand  old  Common- 
wealth than  that  which  he  inherited.  He  might,  therefore,  well 
afford  to  show  the  conflicts  of  public  life  for  public  honors,  if  any  Amer- 
ican might ;  and  rest  satisfied  with  the  achievements  of  his  relative  Ed- 
mund Pendleton,  the  great  Chief- Justice  of  the  Court  of  Appeals  of 
VirLMtiiu.  \vli(»sc  learning,  patriotism  and  ability  first  brought  the  family 
to  1  ur^l.  th  iigh  of  plebeian  origin,  made  himself  the  acknowl- 

edged  chief  of  the  aristocratic  party  in  the  Old  Dominion.  No  means  of 
information  in  our  possession  enable  us  to  say  what  precise  relation  James 
Pendleton  sustained  to  the  Chief-Justice :  but  it  is  certain  they  were  near 
relatives.  It  is  well  known,  however,  that  he  was  the  great  uncle  of  the 
Hon.  Edmund  Pendleton,  of  our  own  day,  who  was,  before  the  war  of 
the  rebellion,  for  several  \  i;^  the  representative  in  Congress  of  the  Cul- 
pepper di?=trirt;  and,  at  on.'  tim.-  distinguished  as  thf  only  AVhii::  in  Con- 
gress from  the  Stat*'  of  X'iiL'iniu.  No  facts  h:i\''  (.'inf  lo  t)iif  li:inds. 
till-.. win-  nny  li-ht  up-n  th-  l:i!i.  Iv  -f  Mi--.  .Inn.  -  I'.ii.ll.'t.  mi.  th.-  iii..;hrr 
of  Esther,  li  It  th.  .  li:iractcr  of  the  daughti  r  .  pure  and  self-sacri- 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

ficing  at  every  stage  of  her  life,  is  a  perpetual  testimony  to  the  rare  good 
fortune  of  her  husband  in  the  choice  of  his  companion  and  the  mother 
of  his  children,  who  rose  up  to  call  her  blessed. 

Soon  after  their  marriage  Jonathan  B.  Barrett  and  his  wife  fixed  their 
home  at  Newport,  then,  as  ever  since,  a  military  post  of  the  Government. 
To  their  new  home  his  mother  came  soon  after  the  death  of  her  husband, 
to  share  it  with  them,  and  to  die.  It  is  not  known  how  long  she  was  per- 
mitted to  witness  their  happiness,  but  it  could  not  have  been  long;  for 
their  daughter,  her  grand-child  and  namesake,  has  no  remembrance  of 
any  incident  of  her  life  or  death,  or  even  of  herself.  She  must,  there- 
fore, have  died  while  she  was  yet  very  young ;  for  a  death  in  a  family, 
and  especially  of  so  distinguished  a  member  of  it  as  grand-mother,  would 
otherwise  have  been  fixed  in  her  memory  forever.  Her  first  recollection 
is  not  so  old  as  her  grand-mother's  death  ;  for  she  herself  says :  "  The 
oldest  picture  in  my  memory,  represents  my  mother,  in  traveling  dress, 
standing  at  the  closed  door  of  our  old  home,  and  weeping  as  she  bids 
farewell  to  a  few  neighbors.  She  holds  a  young  baby  in  her  arms;  and 
two  little  girls  stand,  one  on  either  side  of  her,  looking  up  into  her  face, 
and  wondering  what  makes  mamma  cry."  This  was  the  moment  of  their 
departure  from  their  first  home  at  Newport,  in  quest  of  a  new  one  in 
what  was  then  the  wilderness  of  Indiana.  The  picture  which  thus  marks 
it,  becomes  henceforth  the  beginning  of  her  mind's  life.  Whatever  else 
may  have  been  written  before  it,  by  the  angel  of  memory,  must  lie  buried 
and  forgotten,  until  the  light  of  recollection  shall  shine  upon  and  reveal 
the  record.  Her  conscious  life  begins  at  the  moment  when  the  door  of 
her  first  home  closes  behind  her  and  her  family;  and  they  go  forth  into 
the  great  world,  bearing  it  in  their  hearts  as  sacred— a  legend  of  their 
«  Paradise  Lost.' ' 

The  young  mother  and  her  three  children,  in  leaving  their  «♦  Old 
Kentucky  Home,"  passed  near  the  barracks,  on  the  way  to  the  boat  which 
was  to  bear  them  to  their  new  home  in  the  wilderness.  The  military  band 
at  the  p(j6t  was  playing  a  lively  air ;  and  Sarah,  for  the  moment,  forgot  the 
sad  picture  which  we  have  just  described  in  her  own  words,  as  she  caught 
the  inspiration  of  the  music.  But  we  must  let  her  tell  the  effect  which 
it  had  upon  her.     She  says ;     "  I  remember  stopping  to  dance  a  measure 

XVII  ^''^ 


>  THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

to  the  merry  martial  music,  as  we  went  down  the  street  to  the  boat  which 
-was  to  convey  us  as  far  as  Louisville  toward  our  new  home."  Happy 
childhood  to  be  thus  able  so  soon  to  forget  its  sorrow  and  tears;  or, 
remembering  them  still,  so  soon  to  find  them  divinely  compensated  by 
gladness  and  smiles.  Blessed  April  of  life  !  in  which  sunshine  and  shadow 
chase  each  other  with  flying  feet  over  the  fields. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  upon  the  boat.  The  husband  and 
father,  however,  was  not  with  them.  They  were  going  to  join  him  in 
Indiana,  whither  he  had  gone  many  months  before  to  prepare  a  place  fbr 
them.  We  can  not  better  describe  the  boat  and  voyage  than  she  whose 
life  began  that  day  has  done  it  in  a  letter  to  a  friend ;  and  therefore  we 
shall  use  her  o-Jrn  words.  She  says:  "The  boat,  which  was  a  cross 
between  a  flat-boat  and  a  barge,  had  a  cabin  in  one  end  just  large  enough 
to  contain  our  trunks  and  beds ;  in  the  other,  stalls  and  provender  for  two 
horses.  Between  these  was  a  nice  cooking  arrangement,  with  ample 
space  for  dining  table  and  chairs.  Upon  this  craft  we  floated  down  the 
beautiful  Ohio,  through  fair  days  and  starry  nights,  for  two  weeks — about 
as  long  as  one  would  now  require  to  sail  from  New  York  to  Liverpool, 
transact  a  little  business,  and  return.  Arrived  at  Louisville,  we  found 
Grand-father's  carriage  waiting  to  take  us  to  his  house,  some  miles  from 
the  city.  This  grand-father  was  James  Pendleton  of  Virginia."  It  had 
been  previously  arranged  that  Mr.  Barrett  should  meet  his  family  at  the 
house  of  his  wife's  father.  He  kept  this  engagement ;  and,  after  a  delight- 
ful visit  of  three  or  four  weeks,  set  out  with  them  to  their  future 
home  in  Indiana.  How  they  passed  from  the  house  of  Mr.  Pendleton  to 
the  Ohio  river,  and  crossed  it,  wo  are  not  informed;  and  Mrs.  Bolton 
declares  that  she  does  not  recollect,  her  memory  having  "  dropped  a  link 
from  its  chain."  Her  recollection  of  their  journey  through  the  woods  is 
vivid  and  perfect.  "As  there  was  no  road  for  wheels,"  she  says,  "  we 
were  obliged  to  travel  on  horse-back.  Our  little  caravan  consisted  of 
three  pack-horses,  laden  with  bedding,  bacon,  coffee  and  flour.  Upon  one 
of  these  horses  my  mother  rode  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  I  on  the 
pack,  behind  her  or  my  father,  who  led  the  third  horse.  After  picking 
our  way  for  several  days,  along  the  trace  which  was  little  better  than  an 
Indian  trail,  wo  came  to  the  Muscatatuck,  and  found  it  swollen  to  a 
broad,  angry  looking  river.     What  was  to  be  done  ?     There  was  no  ferry 

XVIU 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

no  apparent  ford,  and  nobody  in  reach  to  tell  us  of  its  depth,  or  of  the 
danger  of  an  attempt  to  cross  it.  After  consulting  with  my  mother,  my 
father,  on  the  tallest  horse,  tied  me  behind  hira,  took  the  baby  in  his  arms, 
and  ventured  in.  The  water  rose  to  the  horse's  back,  but  did  not  lift  him 
from  his  feet;  and  steadily  he  climbed  the  opposite  bank,  waded  through 
the  flooded  valley,  and  brought  us  at  last  safely  to  dry  land.  There  my 
father  laid  the  baby  down,  left  me  to  watch  it,  and  went  back  for  my 
mother ;  not  knowing  but  that  the  bears  might  carry  us  both  off  before 
his  return.  It  chanced  however,  that  we  all  got  safely  over  the  river  and 
arrived  at  Vernon,  that  night.  Our  new  home  was  still  six  miles  beyond 
the  town,  and  we  did  not  reach  it  until  the  next  day.  It  was  a  little 
cabin,  built  of  round  logs,  with  a  puncheon  floor,  a  clapboard  roof,  and  a 
door  hung  on  wooden  hinges,  and  fastened  with  a  wooden  latch,  and 
standing  in  a  dense  forest,  full  of  wild  beasts  and  "  tame  Indians,"  as  we 
called  the  few  stagglers  that  remained  after  their  tribes  had  been  removed. 
It  was  a  dreary  outlook  to  my  mother,  a  young  and  sensitive  woman, 
brought  up  in  cultivated  society;  and  I  saw  the  tears  dropping  from  her 
dark  eyes  that  first  night  as  she  spread  our  supper  upon  the  rude  table, 
which  my  father  and  his  hired  man  had  made.  But  with  a  true  heart  and 
strong  hands  she  took  up  her  burden  and  bore  it  bravely  and  patiently  to 
the  end.  She  has  been  dead  more  than  thirty  years;  and,  looking  back 
on  what  she  did  and  what  she  was,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  in  view  of 
all  my  observation  and  experience,  that  I  have  never  known  her  equal 
in  all  that  goes  to  make  up  a  noble  character." 

The  farm,  on  which  they  settled,  was  situated  on  Six-Mile  Creek,  in 
a  north-easterly  direction  from  Vernon ;  and  while  the  soil  was  not  of 
the  best  quality  it  was,  nevertheless,  good  productive  land.  The  creek 
ran  close  to  their  cabin,  upon  a  rocky  bed,  and  a  spring,  on  the  opposite 
shore  furnished  the  family  abundance  of  good  pure  water.  This  spring, 
indeed,  formed  one  of  the  most  pleasing  and  romantic  features  of  the 
place,  its  waters  rising  from  the  level  and  leaping  into  the  air,  like  those 
of  a  fountain,  several  feet  high.  To  this  spring  Sarah  was  often  sent,  at 
night,  for  water  to  slake  her  father's  thirst.  AVe  have  frequently  heard 
her  tell  of  these  nocturnal  visits  to  the  beautiful  fountain,  whose  waters 
breaking  into  spray,  shone  like  Orient  pearls  in  the  star-light.  It  had  a 
voice  too  for  her  young  spirit,  that  awakened  visions  which  have  mingled 

XIX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

with  all  the  realities  of  her  life,  lending  the  charm  of  beauty  to  them  all. 
The  memory  of  that  fountain  is  to  her,  even  yet,  an  inspiration  and  a 
solace.  But  even  childhood  had  other  tasks  than  to  bear  Avater  from  the 
spring  and  dream  of  its  brightness  and  music.  The  family  had  to  win  bread 
from  the  soil,  and  clothe  themselves  from  the  fiber  of  the  flax,  and  the 
wool  of  the  sheep.  The  smallest  hand  in  this  battle  for  "  the  altogether 
indispensible  "  had  to  labor  that  none  might  sutler.  None  could  afford  to 
be  idle.  Such  a  family  is  an  excellent  school  in  which  to  establish  good 
habits,  both  of  mind  and  body;  without  which  no  life  is  worth  the  living. 
It  was  in  this  school  that  the  foundations  of  Mrs.  Bolton's  character  were 
laid.  She  says :  "  I  shall  never  know  when  or  how  I  learned  to  cook, 
wash,  spin  or  sew ;  but  sometimes  I  had  a  spare  hour  when  I  stole  away 
into  fairy  -land  and,  child  as  I  was,  dreamed  the  dreams  that  come  with- 
out a  sleep.  And  sometimes,  too,  we  had  a  holiday,  with  permission  to 
spend  it  with  our  neighbors,  the  Bakers.  This  gave  us  a  delightful  ride 
through  the  woods,  of  six  miles,  which  we  made  upon  the  back  of  a  safe 
old  mare,  with  no  other  trappings  than  the  bridle  and  a  blanket  girted 
upon  her.  Being  the  oldest,  I  rode  before;  and  my  little  sister,  two  years 
younger  than  myself,  behind.  When  she  slipped  oflT,  as  she  sometimes 
did,  1  would  bring  the  good  old  mare  up  to  a  great  log,  and  she,  with  my 
help,  would  climb  on  again.  One  day,  returning  from  one  of  these  visits, 
we  left  the  path  to  look  for  wild  grapes  and  became  lost  in  the  woods. 
I  was  not  frightened,  and  rode  forward,  as  1  thought  in  the  right  direc- 
tion, until  we  came  to  the  wigwam  of  an  Indian.  Three  or  four  half- , 
nude  children  were  playing  about  their  sick  mother,  who  lay  upon  a  bear 
skin  before  a  smouldering  fire.  The  father  had  just  returned  from  a  suc- 
cessful hunt,  bringing  home  a  fine  deer,  and  seemed  delighted  with  a 
prospective  feast.  Ue  could  speak  only  a  few  words  of  English,  but 
understood  us  when  we  told  him  that  we  were  lost.  "  Augh  !  Augh  !  '* 
he  grunted,  «•  Mo  know  Gunnel,"  meaning  our  father.  "  Him  good."  My 
mother  had  given  him  a  blanket  for  his  wife,  who  was  dying  with  con- 
sumption ;  and  he  seemed  anxious  to  aid  us  in  getting  home.  So,  after 
throwing  another  log  upon  the  fire,  and  giving  his  squaw  some  directions, 
he  went  with  us  through  the  woods  to  the  path  which  led  us  safely  home." 
Such  an  incident  tends  to  show  the  hardihood  and  self-reliance  acquired 
by  the  children  of  the  early  settlers  of  our  country;  and  that  some  of 
the  best  results  .in  the  education  of  the  young  may  be  attained  by  the 

XX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

spontaneous  evolution  of  character,  under  circumstances  purely  adventi- 
tious, without  designing  or  seeming  to  educate  at  all. 

But  the  education  of  frontier  life  has  never  been  wholly  derived  from 
the  unavoidable  and  grim  conflict  of  labor  against  want,  and  the  daily 
communion  of  the  child's  soul  with  nature's  in  her  various  phases  and 
moods.  These,  indeed,  are  essential  and  mighty  forces  for  human  devel- 
opment; but  alone  they  are  not  suflBcient.  There  must  be  added  a  human 
element  that  has  floated  in  the  current  of  life  and  thought  from  the  ear- 
liest to  the  latest  time,  and  which,  collected,  constitutes  the  memories  and 
the  hopes,  the  apprehensions  and  the  aspirations  of  the  race,  or  it  will 
remain  forever  incomplete.  This  human  element  must  be  breathed  into 
the  soul  of  the  taught,  from  the  heart  of  the  teacher.  In  vain  shall  the 
"wilderness  rejoice  and  be  glad  for  the  young,  if  some  inspired  man  or 
woman  unfold  not  to  them  the  mysteries  of  time  and  eternity,  of  life  and 
death.  The  burden  of  human  existence  must  be  spoken — its  infinite 
importance  must  be  made  known — by  one  who  feels  it.  The  pioneers  of 
Indiana  did  not  lack  such  teachers.  They  were  serious  people  who 
preached  the  gospel  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  wilderness ;  because,  to  them, 
it  was  divinely  true,  and  supremely  important  to  the  children  of  men. 
The  zeal  of  their  vocation  burned  intensely,  and  they  delivered  the  mes- 
sage of  life  and  of  death,  with  face  and  form  illuminated  with  the  light 
of  a  transcendent  conviction,  and  in  burning  words  that  penetrated  and 
awakened  the  souls  of  their  hearers  with  corresponding  faith  and  emo- 
tions. Like  the  old  prophets,  they  startled  those  whom  they  found  "  at 
ease  in  their  possessions,"  from  their  dream  of  security,  and  life  hence- 
forth became  charged  for  them  with  immortal  consequences.  One  of 
these  inspired  men  visited  and  preached  in  the  neighborhood  of  Col. 
Barrett;  and  he  and  his  family  heard  him  preach.  Sarah  was,  at  the 
time,  scarcely  eight  years  old;  but  she  has  never  forgotten  the  "strange, 
eccentric  preacher — something  after  the  manner  of  Lorenzo  Dow,"  who 
came  to  her  father's  house  from  his  labor  among  the  Indian  tribes.  He 
told  them  that  he  would  preach  to  them  the  next  Sunday.  They  sent 
word  to  their  neighbors,  the  Bakers,  and  invited  the  tow^n  people  to  come 
and  hear  him.  But  she  herself  must  tell  about  the  meeting,  and  the 
sermon : 

"  At  the  appointed  time  we  were  all  met  in  the  maple  grove — some 

XXI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

of  the  young  men,  and  all  the  boys  perched  up  in  the  trees,  looking  like 
great  dodos,  half  a  dozen  mothers,  each  with  her  flock  of  little  children, 
and  as  many  horny-handed  fathers,  whittling  and  talking  about  the  crops, 
or  the  coming  election — all  waiting  for  the  preacher.  At  length  he  came — 
a  tall,  gaunt  man  in  blue  hunting-shirt  fastened  about  his  waist  with  a 
wampum  belt,  leather  leggins,  beaded  moccasins,  and  a  coonskin  cap. 
After  an  eloquent  and  impressive  prayer,  he  took  his  text  from  Revela- 
tions, and  drew  a  word-picture  of  the  final  judgment  which  would  rival 
Wie^  chef  d' autre  of  Michael  Angelo,  in  the  Vatican.  With  lights  and 
shadows  playing  athwart  his  weird  face,  his  long  black  hair  tossing  to  and 
fro  in  the  summer  wind,  he  described  the  darkened  sun,  the  moon  turned 
to  blood,  the  falling  stars,  the  judge  coming  in  the  clouds  of  heaven, 
the  multitudes  rising  from  their  graves  in  the  sea  and  on  the  land,  the 
joy,  the  exaltation  of  the  redeemed,  going  up  to  everlasting  life,  and  the 
horror  and  despair  of  the  doomed,  going  down  to  eternal  burnings.  Then 
fixing  his  wild,  streaming  eyes  upon  his  little  audience,  as  if  he  would 
look  into  their  very  souls,  with  a  voice  that  rang  out  through  the  dim 
forest,  thridding  all  its  aisles,  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet,  and  awakening 
echoes  that  came  back  to  us  from  afar,  he  asked :  'Are  you  all  ready  ? ' 
The  effect  was  amazing.  Women  shrieked,  men  groaned  and  sobbed, 
and  little  children  clung  crying  to  their  mothers  in  an  agony  of  wonder 
and  terror!  The  sermon  was  done,  and  the  preacher  gone.  When,  how, 
or  whither  he  had  gone,  none  knew  or  will  ever  know.  Perchance  he 
returned  to  his  self-imposed  missionary  work  among  the  Indians.  The 
rest  of  his  life  and  human  destiny  lie  hid,  until  the  light  of  eternity  shall 
reveal  them.  Even  his  name  is  lost  to  those  of  us  with  whom  he  left  a 
grand  and  everlasting  memory,  A  strangely  gifted  creature!— to  live 
and  to  die  in  a  wigwam." 

Let  what  will  be  said  of  such  a  teacher,  or  his  work,  they  are  both 
needful  and  helpful  to  people  who  intend  to  live  serious  lives,  and  to  do 
lerious  work  while  they  do  live.  Such  lessons  make  men  better  and 
stronger  to  do  battle  for  the  good  that  is  in  this  world,  and  in  that  which 
lies  beyond  it  In  the  deep  poetic  heart  of  Sarah  T.  Barrett  the  seed 
sowed  that  day  took  root  and  grew,  producing,  for  all  time  and  life,  an 
bundredofold.  In  speaking  of  the  impression  made  upon  her  young  mind 
by  the  lesson  of  that  day,  she  recently  said  to  one  of  her  friends;     ••  That 

xxn 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

sermon  took  such  a  hold  on  my  imagination,  that  I  could  scarcely  eat  or 
sleep  till  I  had  composed  a  song  upon  the  terrible  scene  which  it  so 
vividly  set  before  us.  This  song  1  used  to  sing,  when  alone  in  the  woods, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  whispering  leaves,  and  murmuring  waters. 
Years  later  in  life,  when  1  had  learned  to  write,  I  transcribed  it  from 
memory.     It  was  my  first  poem." 

As  the  years  went  by,  Colonel  Barrett  beheld  his  lands  constantly 
taking  on  the  features  of  a  farm.  He  was  daily  more  and  more  impres- 
sing himself  upon  the  spot  he  had  chosen  for  his  home.  With  some 
money,  a  brave  heart,  and  a  strong  arm,  he  had  soon  cleared,  fenced  and 
put  under  cultivation  nearly  one  hundred  acres;  and,  in  less  than  five 
years,  had  built  a  better  dwelling  house ;  put  a  grist  mill  in  operation, 
and  surrounded  himself  with  flocks  and  herds  that  promised,  at  no  dis- 
tant day,  to  crown  his  life  with  comfort,  if  not  with  wealth.  But  with 
this  pleasing  prospect  of  prosperity  and  plenty  just  at  hand,  he  was  con- 
fronted by  another,  that,  to  his  loving  and  fatherly  heart,  deprived  it  of 
all  its  charms.  "With  his  constantly  widening  fields  and  increasing  flocks, 
his  daughters  were  rapidly  approaching  womanhood  without  learning,  or 
any  possible  opportunity  to  acquire  it.  The  country  around  him  was  an 
almost  unbroken  wilderness.  The  land  on  which  Indianapolis  now  stands 
had  been  but  just  recently  purchased  from  its  savage  owners.  There  were 
neither  schools,  nor  churches  in  his  neighborhood.  He  had,  indeed,  gained 
an  assurance  of  food  and  clothing  for  himself  and  family;  but  he  saw  his 
children  growing  up  in  ignorance  of  books,  and  the  culture  which  springs 
from  the  knowledge  they  impart.  He  could  not  endure  to  contemplate 
the  prospect.  But  what  was  to  be  done?  The  true,  wise  father  had  no 
alternative  but  to  sell  the  farm  he  had  made,  give  up  the  home  he  had 
founded,  and  go  to  some  place  where  his  children  could  obtain  an  educa- 
tion. He  did  not  halt  in  his  cnoice  between  mere  material  wealth  and 
the  riches  which  dower  the  soul.  It  was  far  more  important  in  his  judg. 
ment,  to  find  rations  to  feed  and  develope  the  minds  of  his  daughters, 
even,  if  to  do  it,  should  entail  poverty  upon  himself  for  the  rest  of  his 
days,  than,  by  starving  and  dwarfing  their  souls,  to  close  his  life  in  the 
midst  of  broad  acres  and  wealth.  He  accordingly  sold  his  farm  at  a 
ruinously  low  price,  and  so  doomed  himself  to  comparative  poverty,  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life.     He  moved  at  once  to  Madison,  then,  the  chief 

xxm 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

center  of  trade  and  commerce,  of  education  and  social  refinement  in  the 
State.  At  that  time  he  had  six  children,  the  eldest  being  a  little  less  than 
ten  years  old.  This  eldest  child,  whose  career  we  are  to  follow  to  the 
present  time,  was  then  very  large  for  her  years,  and,  upon  entering  school 
found  herself  far  behind  all  the  children  of  her  own  size  in  learning. 
She  felt  ashamed  to  be  so  large  and  know  so  little,  although  the  fault  was 
none  of  her  own.  But  her  shame  instead  of  paralyzing  her  energies, 
operated  as  a  spur  to  urge  her  to  increased  effort  to  redeem  the  time.  By 
great  dilligence  and  labor,  she  advanced  rapidly,  and  was  soon  abreast 
with  the  foremost  scholars  of  the  school.  It  only  required  two  months 
to  enable  her  to  read,  and  to  write  sufficiently  to  transcribe  her  rhymes. 

It  may  be  observed  here,  that  educational  facilities  were  not,  in  1823, 
on  a  par  with  those  which  we  now  possess.  The  teachers,  at  that  early 
day,  were  generally  from  the  East,  and  only  taught  until  they  could  find 
some  more  profitable  business.  The  schools  were  constantly  changing 
teachers.  It  was  impossible,  under  such  circumstances,  for  the  scholars 
to  pursue  any  regular  system  of  study ;  but,  to  a  mind  hungering  and 
thirsting  after  knowledge,  no  system,  however  bad,  can  ever  form  an 
insurmountable  barrier.  Such  a  mind,  when  once  started  upon  its  career 
of  development,  was  that  of  Sarah  T.  Barrett.  She  picked  up  every 
scrap  of  knowledge,  from  whatever  quarter,  that  came  within  her  reach. 
At  one  school  she  committed  Kirkham's  English  Grammar  to  memory, 
together  with  Adams's  Geography.  At  another,  she  made  herself  mistress 
of  Blair's  Rhetoric  and  Comstock's  Natural  Philosophy,  and  Chemistry. 
She  was  passionately  fond  of  Chemistry ;  and  never  ceased  to  pursue  it 
until  she  had  gone  thoroughly  over  the  great  works  of  Sir  Humphrey 
Davy  upon  the  subject.  But  the  text  books  of  the  school  did  not  afford 
a  field  broad  enough  for  her  mind,  which,  under  the  spur  of  a  tireless 
energy,  sought  libraries  in  which  she  might  revel  and  slake  its  thirst  to 
know.  In  this  emergency  of  her  life  it  was,  that  the  Hon.  Jeremiah  Sul- 
livan opened  his  library  to  her,  and  assured  her  that  she  was  free  to  use 
it  as  if  it  were  her  own.  She  still  remembers  him  for  this  generous  act 
with  unbounded  gratitude.  It  was  through  his  kindness  that  she  first 
obtained  possession  of  a  treatise  on  Logic,  which  she  studied.  A  com- 
pendium of  Grecian  Mythology  next  attracted  her  attention,  and  she 
declares  that  she  devoured  it  with  far  greater  relish  and  enthusiasm  than 

XXIV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

the  last  novel  would  afford  her  now.  She  passed  through  the  common 
schools  into  the  academy,  of  which  Mr.  Bumont  Parks  was,  at  the  time 
the  principal.  There  she  entered  upon  the  study  of  the  Latin  language, 
but  some  of  the  neighbors  of  the  family  made  so  much  ado  about  it,  that 
she  finally  dropped  it  when  about  the  middle  of  Virgil.  *'  Woman's  rights," 
as  she  well  observes,  '*  had  found  no  place  in  the  world's  heart  then  ;  " 
and  she  adds :  "  When  an  old  lady  said  to  me  one  day,  *  Sarah,  I  hear  you 
are  learning  Latin.  Do  you  intend  to  study  Law,  or  Medicine?"  I 
blushed  at  the  indelicacy  of  the  idea  involved  in  the  question  she  had 
asked."  The  study  of  the  Classics  by  young  ladies  is  no  longer  deemed 
matter  of  reproach,  and  the  suggestion  to-day  that  one  was  preparing 
herself  to  practice  law  or  medicine,  or  even  to  enter  the  sacred  desk  and 
minister  to  the  people  in  things  divine,  would  bring  no  blush  to  her 
cheek,  as  fraught  with  any  notion  of  indelicacy. 

Long  before  she  gave  up  her  Virgil  she  had  begun  to  write  verses  for 
the  press.  Her  first  published  poem  appeared  in  the  Madison  Banner,  of 
which  Col.  Arion  was,  at  the  time,  editor.  He  introduced  the  poem  with 
a  compliment  in  which  the  words  occurred :  "  Our  fair,  highly  gifted 
correspondent  is  not  yet  fourteen  years  old."  In  giving  a  friend  an 
account  of  this  compliment  she  recently  declared  that  "  Byron,  wh^n  he 
awoke  that  memorable  morning,  and  found  himself  famous,  was  not  so 
happy  as  that  little  notice  made  me,  as  I  read  it  over  and  over  again,  and 
wondered  if  my  eyes  did  not  deceive  me.  From  that  time  on,  Until  I 
was  married,  in  my  eighteenth  year,  I  wrote  something  nearly  every  week 
for  the  newspapers  of  Madison  or  Cincinnati." 

Her  life  may  be  regarded  as  fortunate  after  the  removal  of  her  family 
to  Madison,  where  she  found  all  the  conditions  essential  to  the  develop- 
ment of  her  intellectual  and  moral  nature;  and,  indeed,  her  residence  in 
the  wilderness  of  the  interior  was  but  a  fitting  preparation  for  the  new 
circumstances  in  which  she  was  ever  after  to  live  and  grow.  In  passing 
from  the  loneliness  and  solitude  of  her  country  home  in  the  vast  forest, 
to  the  neat,  busy,  and  bustling  little  city,  which  she  found  palpitating  with 
a  mighty  hope  of  realizing,  within  a  few  years,  a  grand  commercial  and 
civic  destiny,  she  caught,  at  once,  the  life  and  spirit  of  her  new  home,  with 
the  quick  intuition  of  genius,  and  soon  outran  it  upon  all  its  chosen  ways. 
Nature  everywhere  joined  with  society  to  touch  her  soul  with  an  inspira- 

XXV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

tion,  whose  flame  consumed  the  local  and  the  little  within  it,  and  expanded, 
purified  and  prepared  it  to  receive  and  entertain  the  great  and  the  uni- 
versal. The  feet  of  the  grand  hill  that,  like  the  wall  of  some  vast  amphi- 
theatre, bends  round  the  city  on  the  north,  and  limits  it  in  that  direction, 
are  laved  by  the  waters  of  the  beautiful  Ohio,  which,  while  it  is  suflScient 
to  bear  the  travel  and  commerce  of  the  world  to  its  wharfs,  bounds  it 
upon  the  south.  Thus  enclosed  by  the  river  and  hill,  right  eagerly  and 
with  earnest  faith  in  its  future,  did  it  pursue,  for  more  than  a  score  of 
years,  a  career  of  unparalleled  prosperity.  It  was  the  good  fortune  of  Miss 
Barrett  to  grow  up  to  womanhood,  while  its  star  was  in  the  ascendant,  in 
the  midst  of  its  activities ;  and  to  leave  it,  for  the  great  and  restless  out- 
side world,  ere  commerce,  like  the  priest  and  Levite,  had  learned  to  "  pass 
by  on  the  other  side."  She  thus  escaped  the  stagnation  and  disappoint- 
ment which  it  was  doomed  to  undergo ;  and,  like  the  river  that  she  loved 
with  all  her  heart,  "  went  on  forever,"  to  reflect  the  passing  shadows  of 
earth,  and  the  abiding  lights  of  heaven. 

As  soon  as  Miss  Barrett  began  to  write  for  the  press,  she  attracted 
the  attention  of  editors  and  other  literary  people.  In  this  way  she  became 
acquainted  with  Nathaniel  Bolton,  Esquire,  a  young  gentleman  who  had 
established  a  paper  in  Madison,  before  she  became  known  to  the  public 
as  a  writer.  Their  acquaintance  soon  grew  into  friendship,  and  finally 
into  love,  ending  in  marriage,  October  15,  1831. 


Mr.  Bolton,  the  husband  of  the  young  poetess,  was  born  at  Chilli- 
cothe,  in  the  State  of  Ohio,  July  25,  1803.  His  father  died  soon  after  his 
birth,  and  left  him  helpless  and  poor.  This  cast  him  upon  his  own 
resources  in  childhood.  His  education  was  necessarily  much  neglected. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  he  acquired  most  of  his  education  in  the 
printing  oflSce  where  he  learned  the  printer's  art,  which  he  knew  so  well 
that  before  he  was  sixteen  years  old  he  was  able  to  earn  journeyman's 
wages ;  and  to  find  constant  employment  in  one  of  the  best  oflBces  in 
Ohio.  But  he  was  not  long  satisfied  to  remain  there.  The  spirit  of  ad- 
venture that  led  so  many  young  men  to  Indiana  in  the  first  quarter  of  the 
present  century,  induced  him  to  leave  the  home  of  his  childhood  before 
he  had  attained  his  nineteenth  year,  and  to  emigrate  to  Indianapolis. 
Upon  arriving  there,  he  went  into  business  with  his  step-father.  Judge 
Smith.    They  established  the  ••  Indianapolis  Gazette,"  the  first  newspaper 

XXVI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

ever  published  in  the  State  capital.  Their  printing  and  publishing  house 
was  a  rude  buckeye  cabin,  which  sorted  well  with  other  houses  of  the 
place.  Here  he  entered  upon  a  life  which  was  ever  afterwards  faithfully 
devoted  to  the  promotion  of  the  best  interests  of  the  State  of  his  adoption. 
No  citizen  ever  loved  the  State  or  its  people  better,  or  labored  more  ear- 
nestly and  persistently  to  promote  its  development,  and  their  prosperity 
and  happiness.  He  was  induced  by  some  of  the  leading  men  of  Madison 
and  Jefferson  county  to  remove  to  that  city,  and  establish  and  conduct  a 
newspaper  there,  which  he  did,  as  already  stated.  By  industry  and  fru- 
gality he  had  acquired  considerable  property  before  his  marriage.  Imme- 
diately after  that  event,  he  and  his  young  bride  resolved  to  move  to  the 
capital  and  settle  upon  the  tract  of  land  upon  which  the  Indiana  Hospi- 
tal for  the  Insane  now  stands,  which,  at  that  time,  he  owned.  Their 
bridal  tour,  accordingly,  consisted  of  a  journey  on  horseback  from  Madi- 
son to  Indianapolis,  which  they  reached  without  accident,  after  having 
spent  a  week  on  the  way  at  the  farm-house  of  the  late  Nathan  B.  Palmer, 
who  then  resided  about  ten  miles  nurth  of  the  river.  The  house  on  the 
farm  which  they  were  to  occupy,  stood  on  or  near  the  site  of  that  part  of 
the  Hospital  which  was  lirst  erected  by  the  State.  The  young  couple 
moved  in  as  soon  as  they  arrived,  and  set  up  housekeeping  for  themselves. 
Their  dwelling  was  a  strange  combination  of  materials  and  style.  It  was 
large — one  part  of  it  being  built  of  round  logs,  another  of  hewed  logs, 
and  a  third  was  frame.  The  pile  displayed  no  unity  of  plan ;  and  was 
built  entirely  without  any  regard  to  the  principles  of  architecture,  or  the 
attainment  of  beauty.  Mr.  Bolton  built  a  very  large  room  of  round  logs, 
from  which  he  had  previously  peeled  the  bark.  This  house  was  a  common 
resort  for  public  men  who  were  called  to  the  capital  on  business.  At  the 
hospitable  mansion  all  such  visitors  found  social  entertainment  and  recre- 
ation. But  in  the  spring  of  1833,  Mr.  Bolton's  business  arrangements 
compelled  them  to  move  into  the  city.  He  was  called  to  the  editor  s  chair 
of  the  "  Democrat,"  a  newspaper  established  to  be  the  organ  of  his  party 
at  the  State  capital.  No  man  in  the  State  was  better  qualified,  every 
way,  for  the  duties  of  such  a  position.  He  was  thoroughly  conversant 
with  the  history  of  public  affairs  in  the  State  and  Nation,  and  capable  at 
any  time  of  taking  a  broad  and  complete  view  of  the  whole  political  situ- 
ation. He  was  a  good  writer,  who  could  always  state  the  question  for 
discussion  clearly  and  with  precision,  and,  when  it  was  stated,  make  the 

xxvn 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

argument  in  behalf  of  his  views  of  it,  with  great  force  and  completeness. 
He  was  besides,  a  man  of  great  moderation  and  kindness  of  disposition, 
nearly  always  preserving  a  good  temper,  and  so,  capable  of  maintaining 
the  amenities  of  social  intercourse  even  with  his  adversaries,  at  a  time 
when  the  political  cauldron  had  reached  the  boiling  point.  He  was  diffi- 
dent, self-denying,  and  so  modest  withal,  that  none  were  afraid  that  he 
would  ever  assert  his  claims  to  their  hurt,  or  step  into  preferments  to 
which  his  services  and  fitness  justly  entitled  him,  to  their  exclusion. 
Such  qualities  and  qualifications  could  not  fail  to  find  recognition  and 
employment.  It  is  no  purpose  of  ours  to  consider  further  in  this  place, 
the  manner  in  which  he  performed  his  editorial  office.  The  files  of  his 
journal  may  yet  be  consulted,  and  must  settle  all  questions  on  that  score. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  he  retained  his  position  at  the  head  of  the  "Demo- 
crat," until  the  early  part  of  the  year.  1836,  when  he  returned  with  his 
family  to  the  farm.  During  their  residence  in  the  city,  their  daughter,  Sarah 
Ada  was  born,  March  4,  1836;  and  their  only  other  child,  James,  was 
born  upon  the  farm  July  25,  1838.  At  this  date  the  father  planted  the 
trees  that  now  line  the  lane  from  the  National  road  to  the  Hospital,  in 
commemoration  of  his  son's  birth. 

It  was  during  their  second  residence  upon  the  farm,  that  Mrs.  Bolton 
underwent  her  first  great  trials,  silenced  within  her  own  heart,  for  a  series 
of  years  the  spirit  of  song,  and  side  by  side  with  her  husband  made  a 
protracted  and  earnest  struggle  to  save  their  home  from  being  sacrificed 
to  pay  the  debts  of  friends  for  whom  ho  had  indorsed.  As  already  said, 
this  house  was  near  the  National  road,  at  that  time  greatly  traveled,  and 
they  found  it  impossible  to  avoid  entertaining  many  who  pressed  them 
for  entertainment.  They  finally  resolved  to  accept  the  situation,  and 
open  their  house  to  the  public.  A  sign  was  accordingly  raised,  bearing 
the  words ;  "  Tavern  by  Nathaniel  Bolton."  This  tavern  was  kept  by 
them  for  about  nine  years,  during  which  Mrs.  Bolton  was  often  her  own 
house-keeper,  chamber-maid  and  cook,  besides  superintending  a  dairy  of 
ten  cowa,  caring  for  the  milk,  and  making  large  quantities  of  butter  and 
cheese  for  the  market.  We  have  heard  her  say,  that  she  had  on  hand 
frequently,  at  one  time,  as  many  as  thirty  cheese,  which  required  con- 
stant attention  and  turning  to  keep  them  from  spoiling.  While  they  did 
not  succeed  in  holding,  they  did,  nevertheless,  prevent  the  sacrifice  of 
their  home.    The  exigencies  of  their  circumstances  forced  them  to  sell  it 

XXVIII 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

to  pay  the  debts  of  others.  The  State  became  the  purchaser,  and  has 
placed  upon  it  the  most  magnificent  public  charity  that  exists  anywhere 
in  the  West.  They  were  able  to  save  a  considerable  sum,  after  payino- 
all  obligations  which  he  had  assumed.  This  they  thought  of  investing 
in  a  farm,  for  having  become  used  to  that  mode  of  life,  ihey  had  learned 
to  love  it,  and  did  not  think  of  abandoning  it.  They  accordingly  traveled 
largely  over  that  part  of  the  State  which  lies  north  of  Indianapolis  m 
search  of  a  situation  that  satisfied  them.  They  finally  selected  and  bought 
five  hundred  acres  of  land  near  Tippecanoe  Battle-Ground.  It  was  an 
improved  farm,  three  hundred  acres  being  under  cultivation.  It  cost 
them  five  thousand  dollars.  They  never  moved  upon  it,  but  kept  it  until 
1855,  when  it  was  sold  for  seventeen  dollars  an  acre. 

Notwithstanding  the  hard  toil  and  the  many  privations  which  she 
endured  on  the  Mount  Jackson  farm,  where  the  Hospital  for  the  Insane 
now  stands,  we  have  often  heard  her  say  that  there  yet  lingers  in  her 
memory  many  pleasant  recollections  connected  with  the  place.  Among 
them,  she  is  wont  to  mention  the  fact  that  the  young  people  of  the  city 
were  accustomed  to  hold  many  brilliant  parties  and  dances  there,  as  long 
as  it  remained  her  home.  She  often  speaks  of  the  late  W.  H.  Talbott 
and  his  brother  John,  as  leaders  on  these  gay  and  joyous  occasions,  and  of 
others  who,  like  them,  have  gone  to  "  that  undiscoveered  country  from 
whose  bourne  whence  no  traveler  returns."  Here,  too,  she  gave  parties  to' 
members  of  the  General  Assembly  at  every  session  of  that  body.  Other 
and  more  distinguished  guests  came  thither  also,  from  time  to  time,  to 
receive  and  impart  that  entertainment  which  is  born  of  "  the  thoughts 
that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn."  Among  these  stand  such  names  as 
Tilghman  A.  Howard,  Eobert  Dale  Owen,  Jesse  D.  Bright,  Michael  G. 
Bright,  James  Whitcomb  and  others  then  prominent  in  the  direction  and 
control  of  State  and  National  politics.  Had  she  not  been  a  woman  of 
extraordinary  ability  and  character,  she  could  never  have  endured  to  do 
her  household  drudgery,  and  come  from  it  to  these  social  reunions  with 
these  really  great  and  distinguished  people,  who  moved  in  the  highest 
circles  and  best  society  of  the  country.  But  they  had  learnad  that  "  life 
is  real,  life  is  earnest,"  and  that  "  all  labor  is  holy;"  and,  therefore,  held 
that  he  or  she  who  labors  most  and  is  most  in  earnest,  lives  best  and  most 
enjoys  life. 

In  October,  1840,  Col.  Richard  M.  Johnson,  Vice  President  of  the 
XXIX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

United  States,  and  a  candidate  for  re-election,  visited  Indianapolis.  His 
party  gave  him  a  grand  reception,  and  Mrs.  Bolton  gave  up  her  house- 
hold cares  to  write  a  poetical  address,  which  she  delivered  to  the  distin- 
guished guest,  in  the  presence  of  a  large  assemblage  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. The  poem  was  published  at  the  time  and  attracted  great  attention ; 
but  it  is  not  included  in  her  volume  of  poems  published  by  Carlton.  It 
is  characterized  rather  by  the  feelings  produced  by  the  occasion,  than  by 
high  poetical  merit  or  rhythmical  skill.  During  the  dark  days  from  1836 
to  1845,  she  seldom  wrote  anything,  to  which  she  was  not  prompted, 
as  in  the  case  of  Col.  Johnsons  reception,  by  the  occasion.  The  mar- 
riage or  death  of  some  friend,  or  any  other  event  that  smote  the  com- 
mon heart  sharply  called  forth  a  strain  of  joy  or  grief,  and  then  she  re- 
lapsed again  into  silence.  Among  these  events  may  be  mentioned  the 
bringing  home  to  Indiana  of  the  remains  of  Gen.  Tilghman  A.  Howard, 
who  died  at  his  post  of  duty  as  Charge  (T Affaires  of  the  United  States 
at  the  republican  court  of  Texas;  the  refusal  of  Gen.  Jackson  to  accept 
the  Sarcophagus  of  Alexander  Severus  ;  the  failure  of  the  revolution  in 
Bhode  Island,  and  the  imprisonment  of  Governor  Dorr;  and  the  death 
of  General  Jackson.  Her  poem  "suggested  by  the  refusal  of  General 
Jackson  to  accept  the  Sarcophagus  offered  him  by  the  National  Insti- 
tute," contains  a  lesson  that  should  be  constantly  set  before  American 
youths.  The  grandeur  of  a  high  and  simple-hearted  republicanism  is 
felt  in  every  line.  Jackson  could  aff^ord  to  refuse  the  tomb  of  a  Roman 
Emperor,  for  '*in  his  simplicity,  sublime"  he  was  greater  than  emperors. 
His  refusal  may  be  seen,  written  in  his  own  clear  strong  hand,  hanging 
upon  the  Sarcophagus,  in  the  Patent  OflSce  at  Washington. 

•'Firm  and  unwavering  «iidst  the  strife, 

His  soul  has  never  faltered ; 
And  standing  on  the  verge  of  life. 

His  feelings  are  unaltered; 
Its  holy  light,  the  gem  of  mind, 

Is  brilliantly  displaying. 
Though  the  frail  casket  where  'tis  shriucd, 

Is  silently  decaying. 


XXX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

"  Lay  him  not  in  marble  tomb, 

"Where  sculptured  forms  are  weeping: 
Let  him  rest  in  silent  gloom, 

Where  his  cherished  wife  is  sleeping : 
Make  his  grave  where  the  bright  blue  skies 

And  glorious  stars  are  shining ; 
Where  bright-ej'ed  flowers,  in  rainbow  dye 

Are  lovingly  entwining. 

"  Rear  no  sarcophagus  to  tell, 

The  patriot  hero's  story: 
Imperial  splendor  ne'er  can  swell 

The  measure  of  his  glory. 
There  is  a  tide  that  can  be  stay'd 

In  noble  hearts  that  love  him  • 
The  monument  his  deeds  have  made, 

The  World  will  place  above  him." 

The  triumph  of  the  Charter-Government  over  that  organized  by 
Governor  Dorr  and  his  supporters  in  the  State  of  Rhode  Island  and  the 
subsequent  imprisonment  of  that  gentleman,  inspired  her  with  a  deep 
sense  of  injury  to  the  cause  of  liberty,  and  popular  government  in  Amer- 
ica; and  under  the  influence  of  the  feelings  of  the  hour,  she  wrote  an 
apostrophe  to  the  State,  that  overflowed  with  indignant  bitterness.  A 
single  stanza  must  serve  as  a  sample  of  the  whole. 

"Thou  blot  on  creation  !     Thou  claimest  to  be 

The  home  of  the  exile,  the  land  of  the  free, 

While  tyranny  high  on  her  vassal-raised  throne, 
Still  points  to  thy  charter,  and  calls  thee  her  own." 

It  is  not  at  all  wonderful  that  her  feelings  should  have  been  so  moved, 
for  the  great  Democratic  party  fully  espoused  the  cause^of  the  Dorr  Gov- 
ernmeiit;  and  during  the  political  canvass  of  1844,  made  such  appeals 
to  the  popular  heart  in  behalf  of  the  imprisoned  Governor,  by  paintings, 
songs  and  ora/ory,  as  often  moved  alJ  hearts,  and  brought  tears  to  all  eyes. 
Yet  it  is  now  universally  agreed  by  all  who  have  studied  the  subject,  that 

XXXI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

the  Dorr  Government  had  no  foundation  in  the  principles  of  American 
constitutional  government;  and  would,  if  it  had  met  with  the  sanction  of 
authority,  have  made  a  precedent  upon  which  all  revolutionary  move- 
ments might  have  been  justified.  It  was  not,  however,  to  have  been  ex- 
pected that  a  woman  of  a  highly  wrought,  and  exquisitely  sensitive  poetical 
temperament  should  have  looked  beyond  the  harsh  consequences  of  the 
victory  of  the  Charter-Government,  to  find  means  to  justify  the  suffer- 
ings it  inflicted ;  and  especially  when  a  glance  at  the  grounds  of  the  dis- 
pute, showed  that  the  victorious  party  stood  upon  a  denial  of  political 
rights  to  a  large  body  of  the  people  of  the  State.  At  all  events  she  sym- 
pathised with  the  weaker  party ;  and  warmly  espoused  their  cause  against 
their  stronger  foe.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  have  done  otherwise;  for 
her  whole  life  has  been,  and  still  is,  a  passionate  protest  against  "the  op- 
pressor's wrongs,"  *  *  "and  the  spurns  that  patient  merit  of  the  un- 
worthy takes."  It  was  her  love  of  liberty  and  her  hatred  of  oppression 
that  in  like  manner  led  her  with  all  her  soul  to  espouse  the  cause  of 
Texas  in  her  long  and  bloody  combat  for  independence  with  Mexico; 
and  when,  at  last,  the  time  came  to  annex  the  Lone-Star  Republic  to  the 
American  "Union,  her  genius  did  not  fail  to  inspire  the  effort  and  crown 
the  act  with  its  earnest  oflTerings.  We  venture  to  copy  two  stanzas  from 
her  poem  entitled  "Texas,"  or  "Lines  suggested  by  the  speech  of  Gen. 
"Wick,  Democratic  District  Elector  for  the  Sixth  Congressional  District, 
delivered  at  Mt.  Jackson,  on  the  27th  June,  1844": 

♦•  Where  myrtle  trees  arc  growing, 
And  mighty  rivers  flowing, — 
Where  orange  flowers  are  throwing 
Their  fragrance  to  the  air, 

There  is  a  sister  land, — 

A  noble  Spartan  band, 
Who  bring  to»  freedom's  altar 
The  offering's  that  exalt  her, 
And  never,  never  falter 

To  bravely  lay  them  there. 

xxxn 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Loud  o'er  the  land  is  pealing 

•   The  deep  response  of  feeling, 

The  glorious  truth  revealing 

That  those  we  love  are  there. 
And  they  at  last  are  free, 
And  can  not,  shall  not  be 
Enslaved  again.     No;  never! 
They're  bound  to  us  forever. 
What  wretch  that  tie  would  sever? 
Where  is  the  minion?     Where?'' 

It  was  only  in  some  such  occasional  effort  that  she  broke  away  from 
the  daily  labor  and  cares  of  her  household,  during  all  the  long,  dark  years 
from  1836  to  1845.  Her  sacrifice  to  duty  during  these  years  can  not  be 
overrated.  But,  like  all  such  efforts,  hers  have  been  misstated  by  her 
best  friends,  who  could  have  had  no  other  motive  but  to  commemorate 
them,  and  honor  her.  Thus,  Prof.  W.  C.  Larrabee,  in  his  notice  of  Mrs. 
Bolton,  published  in  the  Ladies'  Kepository  at  Cincinnati,  in  speaking  of 
her  husband's  embarrassments,  and  their  efforts  to  escape  from  them,  says : 

"To  extricate  himself  from  his  difficulties,  he  opened  a  tavern  on  his 
farm,  a  short  distance  west  of  Indianapolis.  Mrs.  Bolton,  then  scarcely 
seventeen  years  old,  found  herself  encumbered  with  the  care  of  a  large 
dairy  and  public  house.  To  aid  as  much  as  possible  in  relieving  her  hus- 
band from  embarrassment,  she  dispensed  with  help,  and,  with  her  own 
hands,  often  for  weeks  and  months,  performed  all  the  labor  of  the  estab- 
lishment. Thus,  for  nearly  two  years,  this  child  of  genius,  to  whom  song 
was  as  natural  as  to  the  bird  of  the  greenwood,  cheerfully  resigned  herself 
to  incessant  toil  and  care,  in  order  that  she  might  aid  her  husband  in 
meeting  the  pecuniary  obligations  which  honesty  or  honor  might  impose. 
During  those  long  and  dreary  years  of  toil  and  self-denial,  she  wrote  little 
or  nothing.  At  last  the  crisis  was  reached,  the  work  accomplished,  and 
the  bird,  so  long  caged  and  tuneless,  was  free  to  soar  into  the  region  of 
song  again." 

While  this  quotation  very  fitly  and  beautifully  displays  the  heroic 
sacrifice  of  the  young  wife,  and  its  effects  upon  the  poetess,  there  are 
some  grave  mistakes  in  reference  to  facts  in  it,  that  for  truth's  sake  it  is 

xxxiir  ^'^ 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

needful  to  correct.  It  plainly  places  the  years  of  trial  and  silence  imme- 
diately after  her  marriage,  and  ends  them  with  her  first  residence  upon 
the  farm.  This  is  clear  from  what  is  said  of  her  age,  and  the  length  of 
their  stay  there  at  that  time.  She  was  then,  indeed,  scarcely  more  than 
seventeen  years  old,  and  did  remain  upon  the  farm  but  two  years — not 
quite  two.  But  the  season  of  embarrassment  had  not  then  come  upon  Mr. 
Bolton.  He  did  not  experience  it  until  he  returned  to  the  country,  in 
1836;  and  it  did  not  end  in  two  years,  but  lasted  nearly  nine,  and, 
during  the  long  night  of  darkness  and  silence,  she  had  no  resource  but 
"to  labor  and  to  wait.  "  Relief  at  last  came,  as  already  seen,  by  the  sale  of 
the  farm,  and,  in  1845  "the  bird  so  long  caged  and  tuneless  was  free  to 
soar  into  the  region  of  song  again." 

Soon  after  the  sale  of  the  farm  Mr.  Bolton  returned  to  the  city,  and 
took  possession  of  the  cottage,  in  which  he  continued  to  reside  until  1853, 
when  he  removed.  It  was  there  that  the  genius  of  song  reasserted  its 
dominion  over  the  soul  of  Mrs.  Bolton,  and  it  returned  with  all  its  powers 
to  the  worship  of  the  Muse.  Her  invocation  to  the  Muse  shows  that  she 
had  just  emerged  from  the  dominion  of  care  and  darkness: 

"  Come  to  me.  Muse!   hast  thou  forsaken 

The  heart  that  trembled  in  thy  smile  so  long? 

Come !  touch  my  spirit-harp  string  and  awaken 
The  spell,  the  soul,  the  witchery  of  song. 

•'  Too  long  have  I  been  bound  in  Care's  dominion ; 

Thou,  only  thou,  canst  break  the  strong  control. 
Come  with  thy  radiant  brow  and  starry  pinion, 

And  bring  again  the  sunlight  to  my  soul. 

"I  met  thee,  fairest  one,  in  childhoods  hours, 
And  wandered  with  thee  over  dale  and  hill, 

Conversing  with  the  stars,  the  streams,  the  flowers; 
1  loved  thee  then,  and  oh '  I  love  thee  still. 

*•  Come  to  mof     Life  is  all  too  dark  and  dreary 
When  thou,  my  guiding  spirit,  art  not  near; 

Come!     I  have  sought  thee  till  my  heart  is  weary. 
And  still  I  watch  and  wait.    Appear!  appear!" 
XXXIV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

It  was  in  allusion  to  this  "Invocation  '  that  William  D.  Gallagher, 
writing  for  the  Columbian  and  Great  "West,  in  1850,  said: 

"  Her  adjuration  was  answered,  and  since  then  the  Muse  has  been  her 
constant  companion.  *  *  *  Some  of  her  poems  are  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  day,  and  are  entitled  to  an  honorable  place  in  the  poetical  literature 
of  her  country.  *  *  «  She  sings,  not  because  she  has  a  demand  from 
either  the  book  trade  or  the  magazine  tr?de,  but  because  song  is  the  lan- 
guage of  her  heart,  and  she  must  sing,  or  her  heart  must  ache  with  its 
suppressed  emotions.  She  explains  all  this,  truthfully  and  beautifully,  in 
the  following  graceful  stanzas  ; 

"  Breezes  from  the  land  of  Eden, 

Come  and  fan  me  with  your  wing, 
Till  my  soul  is  full  of  music, 

And  I  can  not  choose  but  sing. 

''When  the  sparkling  fount  is  brimming. 

Let  a  fairy  cloud  bestow 
But  another  drop  of  water, 

And  a  wave  Avill  overflow, 

"  When  a  thirsty  flower  has  taken 

All  the  dew  its  heart  can  bear, 
It  distributes  the  remainder 

To  the  sunbeam  and  the  air. 

•'Her  power  of  imitation  is  very  strong.  Of  all  attempts  that  have  been 
made  to  copy  the  construction  and  flow  of  Poe's  '  Raven,'  hers  is  the  most 
successful  by  far.  It  occurs  in  a  poem  on  Poes  Death,  and  one  or  two  of 
the  stanzas  are  equal,  not  only  to  the  verse  of  the  '  Raven,*  but  also  to  its 
poetry." 

Notwithstanding  her  comparative  freedom  from  domestic  cares  after 
her  removal  to  her  cottage  home  in  the  city,  and  the  opportunity  which 
her  new  circumstances  aflTorded  her  to  devote  her  attention  to  subjects  of 
general  interest  and  worthy  of  her  genius,  she  was  still  too  closely  bound 
by  the  ties  of  affectionate  sympathy  to  the  society  in  which  she  lived  not 
to  be  thrilled  by  its  joys  and  sorrows  and  constrained  to  celebrate,  in 

XXXV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.   BOLTON. 

occasional  poems,  the  events  that  brought  to  its  members  either  the  one  or 
the  other.  It  was  in  this  way  that  she  wrote  '•  Lines  suggested  by  the 
presentation  to  the  Legislature  of  the  Banners  of  the  Second  and  Third 
Regiments  of  Indiana  Volunteers,"  in  1874-8.  The  occasion  in  itself  was 
one  long  to  be  remembered;  and  was  besides  illustrated  by  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  and  eloquent  presentation  speeches  ever  delivered  in  the 
State.  This  speech  was  delivered  by  Captain  Thomas  L.  Sullivan,  the 
eldest  son  of  Mrs.  Bolton's  early  friend,  and  it  no  doubt  contributed  to 
inspire  her  lines.  We  can  not  forbear  quoting  three  stanzas : 
"  Where  the  cannon's  voice  was  loudest, 

Where  the  boldest  deeds  were  wrought, 
Where  the  good,  the  true  lay  dying, 
Where  the  noblest,  bravest  fought; 
Ever  foremost  with  the  daring, 

Ever  in  the  thickest  fight. 
Did  those  hope-inspiring  banners 

Meet  the  fainting  soldier's  sight. 
"And  he  hailed  them,  as  the  sailor 
Hails  the  beacon  from  the  mast, 
When  his  gallant  bark  is  struggling 

With  the  fury  of  the  blast. 
He  hailed  them  as  the  wanderer 

Hails  the  beaming  of  a  star, 
That  reminds  him  of  his  childhood, 

And  his  quiet  home  afar. 
•*  Keep  them !  keep  them !  Indiana  f 
Lay  them  on  thy  proudest  shrine; 
For  the  dim  and  distant  future 

No  holier  gift  is  thine. 
Thy  fair  and  peerless  daughters 

Wrought  those  stars  of  gloaming  gold, 
And  thy  noble  sons  fought  bravely 

Beneath  their  shadowy  fold. 
Wreath  the  cypress  with  the  laurel. 
Bind  each  worn  and  faded  shred ; 
They  are  proud  but  sad  mementoes 
Of  thy  gallant,  gallant  dead. 
XXXVI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

The  mind  and  pen  of  Mrs.  Bolton  were  busy  after  her  return  to  the 
city.  She  had  leisure  now  to  employ  her  thoughts  upon  many  grand  and 
constant  themes  that  nature,  in  her  various  moods,  offers  to  her  gifted 
children  to  lead  them  to  contemplation  and  inspire  them  with  song.  She 
did  not,  however,  cease  to  share  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  her  friends  and 
neighbors,  nor  of  the  general  public:  and  upon  all  occasions  of  joy  or 
woe,  whether  public  or  private,  her  heartfelt  and  ready  sympathy  poured 
itself  out  in  "harmonious  numbers. "  She  was  a  high  Mason's  daughter, 
and  in  early  childhood  had  learned  to  reverence  and  honor  the  ancient 
and  venerable  order  to  which  her  father  had  given  his  heart.  Conse- 
quently, when,  in  October,  1848,  the  corner-stone  of  the  Grand  Masonic 
Hall  was  laid  at  the  city  of  Indianapolis,  she  prepared  an  ode  for  the 
occasion,  which  was  sung  by  the  brethren  and  citizens,  led  by  the  choir  of 
the  Second  Presbyterian  Church  of  the  city.  It  was  worthy  of  the  occa- 
sion, but  is  too  long  to  be  inserted  here.    The  last  stanza  is  as  follows : 

'•Go,  in  the  spirit  of  Him  who  is  holy, 

Gladden  the  wastes  and  the  by-ways  of  earth ; 
Visit  the  homes  of  the  wretched  and  lowly, 
Bringing  relief  to  the  desolate  hearth. 

Bind  up  the  broken  heart, 

Joy  to  the  sad  impart. 
Stay  the  oppressed,  and  strengthen  the  just; 

Freely  do  ye  receive. 

Freely  to  others  give, 
Great  is  your  mission — '  in  God  is  your  trust.'  " 

In  May.  1849,  the  Grand  Chapter  of  the  State,  remembering  her 
services  to  the  order,  adopted  the  following  resolutions  of  thanks . 

'^  Kesolved,  unanimously.  That  the  thanics  of  this  Grand  Chapter  are 
due  to  Mrs.  Sarah  T.  Bolton,  for  the  beautiful  Masonic  ode  composed 
by  her,  which  was  sung  on  the  occasion  of  laying  the  corner-stone  of 
Grand  Masonic  Hall,  in  said  city,  on  the  25th  day  of  October  last. 

"Resolved,  unanimously.  That,  as  a  token  of  the  high  regard  which 
the  members  of  the  Grand  Chapter  entertain  for  the  character  of  Mrs. 
Bolton,  and  to  manifest  their  appreciation  of  her  as  a  poetess,  the  Grand 

XXXVII 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Chapter  will  present  for  her  acceptance  a  silver  cup,  with  an  appropriate 
device  and  inscription. 

"Resolved,  That  a  committee  be  appointed  to  carry  these  resolutions 
into  effect,  and  that  a  copy  of  the  rbsolutions,  under  the  seal  of  the 
Grand  Chapter,  be  furnished  Mrs.  Bolton  with  the  presentation. " 

The  design  was  duly  executed,  under  the  direction  of  the  committee 
of  the  Grand  Chapter,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  24th  of  May,  1850, 
Hon.  James  Morrison,  in  one  of  the  principal  churches  of  the  city,  and 
in  presence  of  a  large  and  appreciative  audience,  presented  Mrs.  Bolton 
the  cup  which  had  been  voted  her  a  year  before.  He  delivered  a  neat 
and  admirable  speech,  in  which  he  glanced  at  her  career  as  a  poetess  and 
the  fame  she  had  already  won,  and  concluded  by  saying:  "As  Masons, 
Madam,  we  attach  peculiar  value  to  the  signal  service  done  our  order  by 
this  free-will  offering  of  your  Muse,  for  we  so  consider  it.  I  repeat  the 
sentiment — we  do  consider  it  a  most  noble,  glowing,  and  truthful  defense 
of  the  cardinal  principles  of  ancient  Free  Masonry;  principles,  alas,  most 
grievously  maligned  and  misrepresented,  because  they  are  not  generally 
understood.*  He  then  referred  to  the  adoption  by  the  Grand  Chapter  of 
the  resolutions,  and  closed  by  saying:  "And  now,  Madam,  as  the  honored 
organ  of  the  Grand  Chapter,  in  their  name  and  presence,  I  present  for 
your  acceptance  this  cup,  the  mam  device  of  which  you  will  notice  is  the 
Royal  Arch,  and  under  which,  and  between  its  sustaining  columns,  is 
this  inscription : 

"  •  The  Grand  Chapter  of  the  State  of  Indiana,  to  Mrs.  Sarah  T.  Bolton, 
as  a  token  of  acknowledgment  for  her  excellent  Masonic  ode  on  the  lay- 
ing of  the  corner-stone  of  the  Grand  Masonic  Hall  at  Indianapolis, 
October  25,  A.  D.  1848,  A.  L.  5848.* 

•  "The  minor  device  represents  a  craftsman  in  the  act  of  adjusting  a 
comer  stone  to  its  proper  place.  The  inscription  is  one  quite  familiar  to 
you,  being  three  lines  from  your  own  inspiring  ode: 

••  •  Come  lay  the  corner-stone 
Asking  the  Lord  to  own 
lAbors  that  tend  to  His  glory  and  praise.' 

xxxvni 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

"This  token,  Mrs.  Bolton,  you  will  please  receive  as  an  acknowledg- 
ment by  Masons  that  neither  time  nor  circumstances  will  cancel  or  efface." 

To  the  resolutions  and  presentation  speech,  Mrs.  Bolton  made  an 
appropriate  and  eloquent  response,  which  was  quite  equal  in  all  respects 
to  that  of  the  learned,  venerable  and  eloquent  Judge.  She  concluded 
with  these  sentences: 

"  When,  bowed  and  broken-hearted,  our  first  parents  were  driven 
from  the  garden  of  Eden,  to  reap  the  bitter  fruits  of  disobedience,  the 
spirit  of  Free  Masonry  was  commissioned  in  heaven  to  bless  and  cheer 
them  in  their  loneliness.  She  has  fed  the  hungry,  reclaimed  the  wander- 
ing, ministered  consolation  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying,  and  brightened 
the  pathway  of  the  bereaved  and  desolate.  Mortals  have  witnessed  her 
labors  of  love,  and  angels  have  recorded  her  annals  in  the  archives  of 
eternity.  When  the  lion  shall  lie  down  with  the  lamb — when  the  new 
heaven  and  new  earth  are  created — then,  and  not  till  then,  may  she  fold 
her  white  wings  on  her  spotless  bosom  and  proclaim  that  her  mission  is 
accomplished." 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1851,  the  Grand  Hall  having  been  com- 
pleted, came  to  be  dedicated  to  the  purposes  for  which  it  was  erected.  A 
vast  crowd  assembled  from  ail  parts  of  the  State  to  witness  the  imposing 
ceremonies.  Dr.  Elizur  Deming,  the  Grand  Master,  officiated  on  the 
occasion.  "Age  and  childhood  were  commingled  in  that  throng — man  in 
his  rugged  strength  and  woman  in  her  loveliness  and  purity."  The  Gover- 
nors of  Ohio  and  Indiana  were  present,  together  with  the  officers  of  State 
and  judges  of  the  courts.  Men  of  all  professions,  crafts  and  callings  united 
to  honor  themselves  by  honoring  the  occasion.  An  address  was  delivered 
by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Thomas  Lynch,  and  then  an  ode,  written  exprr--]y  for 
the  occasion  by  Mrs.  Bolton,  was  sung  with  great  effect.  She  wit-  pit-tnt 
in  the  audience,  and  her  daughter,  Sarah  Ada,  a  brilliant  and  beautiful 
girl  of  '•  sweet  sixteen,"'  was  one  of  the  leading  singers  of  the  choir.  The 
last  two  stanzas  invoke  the  inspiration  and  support  of  the  Father,  and 
may  be  quoted  with  profit ; 

"Show  us  the  truth,  and  the  pathway  of  duty; 

Help  us  to  lift  up  our  standard  sublime. 
Till  earth  is  restored  to  the  order  and  beauty 
XXXIX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Lost  in  the  shadowy  morning  of  time. 

Teach  us  to  sow  the  seed 

Of  many  a  noble  deed ; 
Make  us  determined,  unflinching  and  strongs 

Armed  with  the  sword  of  right. 

Dauntless  amid  the  fight, 
Help  us  to  Jevei  the  bulwarks  of  wrong. 

**  Prompt  us  to  labor  as  thou  hast  directed, 
On  the  foundation  laid  sure  in  the  past; 
And  may  'the  stone  which  the  builders  rejected' 
Crown  our  endeavors  with  glory  at  last. 
Then,  at  the  even  tide. 
Laying  the  square  aside, 
May  we  look  calmly  on  life's  setting  sun; 
And  at  the  mercy  seat. 
Where  ransomed  spirits  meet. 
Hear  from  the  Master  the  plaudit,  'Well  done.' " 

The  visit  of  Gov.  Louis  Kossuth  to  the  United  States  in  the  early 
part  of  the  year  1852,  awakened  immense  enthusiasm  among  the  people. 
The  fame  of  his  deeds  and  sufferings  had  preceded  him,  and  poetry  and 
eloquence  had  already  reared  the  column  of  his  renown  and  glorified  his 
name.  The  General  Assembly  invited  him  to  Indianapolis,  and  so  made 
him  and  his  party  the  guests  of  the  State.  His  wonderful  eloquence  swept 
all  hearts,  and  men  and  women  hastened  to  do  him  honor  and  fill  his 
pockets  with  means,  which  he  declared  should  be  employed  in  the  libera- 
tion of  Hungary.  "Mrs.  Bolton,  who  had  written  a  stirring  poem  to  him 
in  1849,  manifested  a  deep  interest  in  his  mission  to  America,  and  was 
chosen  by  the  ladies  of  Indianapolis  to  present  to  him  a  purse  containing 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  which  they  had  contributed.  At  the  close 
of  an  address  by  Kossuth  to  a  large  audience,  on  the  characteristics  of  the 
people  of  Hungary,  a  committee  of  ladies,  among  whom  was  the  wife  of 
Joseph  A.  "Wright,  then  Governor  of  Indiana,  was  presented;  and  Mrs. 
Bolton,  with  subdued  earnestness  of  feeling,  but  in  clear  tones  and  with 
fitting  elocution,  presented  the  purse,  in  a  few  words  which  exactly  repre- 
sented the  spirit  of  the  last  stanza  of  her  poem  to  the  Magyar. 

XL 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

And  hast  thou  striven  with  might  and  mind  in  vain? 

In  vain?     Ah  !  no:  the  bread  thy  deeds  have  cast 
Upon  the  waters  will  be  found  again ; 

The  seed  thy  thoughts  have  sown  will  ripen  fast, 

Dewed  by  a  nation's  tears,  and  when  at  iast 
The  harvest  whitens  until  all  are  free, 

True  hearts  will  turn  with  reverence  to  the  past, 
And  from  the  countless  millions  yet  to  be 
Will  rise  a  paean  song,  brave,  true  Kossuth,  to  thee.' 

In  his  response,  Kossuth  said :  "  You  say  that  you  have  prayed  for 
the  success  of  freedom  in  my  native  land.  I  know  for  yourself  you  have 
done  more  than  this.  You  have  contributed  to  that  cause  your  genius — a 
genius  which  it  is  the  pleasure  of  your  State  to  honor  and  appreciate.  I 
know  that  there  is  a  chord  in  the  heart  of  woman  that  ever  responds  to 
justice,  and  that  her  impulses  are  against  oppression  in  every  land,  I 
entreat  you  to  go  on  and  bestow  your  sympathy,  even  as  the  mother 
bestows  her  love  on  her  child.  Human  liberty  is  well  worthy  of  a  mother's 
fostering  care." 

Between  1847  and  1853,  Mr.  Bolton  was  elected  State  Librarian,  an 
oflSce  which  he  held  for  four  years.  The  salary  was  small,  and  Mrs. 
Bolton  aided  him  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  which,  as  the  library  was 
then  conducted,  were  onerous.  It  gave  her  great  advantages  for  reading, 
and  she  did  not  fail  to  improve  her  opportunities.  She  read  much  and 
thoroughly.  But  she  had  still  other  work,  not  of  the  mind,  to  perform 
during  these  peaceful  and  fruitful  days.  As  part  of  his  official  duties, 
along  with  the  care  of  the  library,  Mr.  Bolton  had  entire  charge  of  the 
State  House  and  grounds,  and  was  bound  to  put  them  in  order  for  the 
meetings  of  the  General  Assembly,  and  for  other  great  meetings  from 
time  to  time.  During  the  excitement  arising  from  the  questions  embraced 
in  the  compromise  legislation  of  1850,  Governor  Wright,  who  was  an 
intense  Union  man,  in  the  interest  of  the  Union  and  of  peace,  invited 
several  of  the  Governors  of  Western  States,  both  North  and  South,  to 
visit  him  at  Indianapolis  and  hold  a  public  reception.  For  this  purpose 
it  was  necessary  to  open  the  Senate  chamber  and  Hall  of  the  House  of 
Representatives.  But,  without  new  carpets,  it  was  found  that  they  were  not 
fit  for  such  a  purpose.     New  carpets  were  purchased   at  once,  but  the 

XLI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

furnishing  business  was  then  in  its  infancy  in  the  Capital  of  Indiana,  and 
the  duty  of  sewing  the  carpets  together  devolved  on  Mrs.  Bolton.  The 
time  was  short,  and  help  difficult  to  obtain  on  any  fair  terms,  or,  indeed, 
at  all.  She  was  at  last  compelled  to  do  the  sewing  mostly  herself,  and.  as 
she  has  always  done  in  every  emergency  of  her  life,  she  did  not  hesitate  a 
moment,  but  went  to  work  at  once  with  such  zeal  and  energy  that  before 
the  day  fixed  for  the  reception  the  carpets  were  all  well  stitched  together 
and  adjusted  to  the  floors.  It  was  during  this  week  or  ten  days  of  inces- 
sant toil,  both  day  and  night,  that  she  composed  that  magnificent  and 
mspinng  battie-hymr.  of  the  victorious  army  of  successful  workers  in 
every  age  and  land,  *'  Paddle  Ycur  Own  Canoe,"  which  has  been  translated 
into  many  languages  and  is  sung  to-day  ail  round  the  globe.  No  life  can 
fail  that  recognizes,  feels  and  follows  the  last  stanza: 

••Nothing  great  is  lightly  won, 

Nothing  won  is  lost; 
Every  good  deed,  nobly  done, 

"Will  repay  the  cost. 
Leave  to  Heaven,  in  humble  trust. 

All  you  will  to  do; 
But,  if  you  succeed,  you  must 

Paddle  your  own  canoe.'' 

Soon  after  his  term  as  State  Librarian  expired,  he  was  appointed  clerk 
to  one  of  the  committees  of  the  United  States  Senate,  by  Mr.  Jesse  D. 
Bright.  "When  he  entered  upon  the  duties  of  this  new  position,  they 
removed  to  a  house  directly  on  Kentucky  avenue,  in  the  city,  and  resided 
there  during  the  two  years  which  ho  was  employed  as  committee  clerk  at 
Washington.  His  I'amily  was  often  with  him  at  the  National  Capital,  and 
some  of  her  poems  have  been  published  dating  from  that  place.  In  this 
way  "Paddlo  Your  Own  Canoo"  first  went  forth  to  the  world.  But  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  its  genesis  is  truly  given  above.  It  is  a  product 
of  our  State,  not  of  our  National  Capital. 

Mr.  Bolton  was  appointed  Consul  at  Geneva,  Switzerland,  by  Presi- 
dent Pierce,  in  the  spring  of  1855.  His  wife  and  daughter  accompanie<l 
him  Ihither  very  soon  after  his  appointment.  They  owed  the  appoint- 
ment to  the  direct  influence  of  Gen.  Joseph  Lane.     Vr  Mmhv  was  then 

XLII 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Secretary  of  State,  and  when  Mr.  Bolton's  recommendations  were  pre- 
sented, declared  that  they  were  sufficient  to  have  justified  his  appoint- 
ment as  minister  to  any  court  in  Europe.  But  Mr,  Bolton  was  not 
ambitious,  and  desired  only  to  give  his  poet-wife  an  opportunity  to  visit 
the  historic  shrines  of  the  old  world  and  the  glory  thereof.  This  accom- 
plished, he  was  satisfied. 

As  soon  as  the  appointment  was  confirmed  by  the  Senate,  and  Mr. 
Bolton  had  procured  his  credentials  and  instructions,  he  was  ready  to  sail. 
"While  he  was  arranging  these  matters,  Mrs.  Bolton  repaired  to  Indian- 
apolis to  settle  affairs  there  and  close  their  house  until  they  should  return 
from  abroad.  These  preliminaries  dispatched  without  delay,  she  joined 
her  husband  in  New  York,  and  sailed  from  that  port,  on  the  steamship 
Ariel,  for  Havre,  May  10,  1855,  where  they  arrived  on  the  fourteenth  day 
of  their  voyage.  After  a  two  days*  stay  at  Havre,  they  proceeded  to  the 
French  capital,  where  the  World's  Fair  was  then  current.  This  was  the 
second  of  those  great  universal  guilds  where  all  crafts  and  all  nations  had 
come  to  exhibit  the  best  fruits  and  achievements  of  their  institutions, 
skill  and  industry.  Mrs.  Bolton,  with  the  quick  eye  and  comprehensive 
mind  of  genius,  took  in  the  vast  ideal  of  such  an  exposition  at  a  glance, 
and.  appreciating  what  it  had  there  accomplished,  ran  down  the  coming 
centuries  to  anticipate  its  results  as  a  factor  in  the  complete  civilization 
and  pacification  of  mankind  in  that  day, 

"When  the  war-drum  throbs  no  longer  and  the  battle-flags  are  furled 
In  the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation  of  the  world." 

From  these  great  achievements  of  the  race  and  the  large  hopes  they 
inspired,  they  turned  away  to  glance  for  a  moment  at  the  brief  but  bril- 
liant glory  of  Napoleon  III,  and  the  court  which  he  and  his  Empress,  the 
beautiful  Eugenie,  held  in  the  gayest  capital  on  earth.  His  Majesty 
deigned  to  speak  a  few  words  to  Mrs.  Bolton  concerning  her  own  country 
and  his  travels  therein,  but  they  were  of  little  import,  and  may  bo  allowed 
to  drop  out  of  sight  without  loss.  On  their  way  from  Havre  to  Paris, 
they  had  stopped  for  a  few  days  at  Rouen,  a  place  replete  with  some  of 
the  grandest  memories  of  mediaeval  times,  and  Mrs.  Bolton  had  not  failed 
to  derive  new  inspiration  in  favor  of 'liberty  and  the  rights  of  mankind" 
from  the  recollections  of  that  daughter  of  the  people,  Joan  D'Arc,  whose 

XLIII 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

cruel  death  in  that  ancient  city  must  forever  make  the  place  of  her  mar- 
tyrdom a  holy  shrine  to  the  patriotic  pilgrims  of  all  lands  It  was 
impossible  for  her,  standing  in  the  presence  of  Napoleon  "the  Little," 
not  to  contrast  his  mean,  perjured  and  bloody  selfishness  with  the  pure, 
grand  and  unselfish  girl,  who,  hundreds  of  years  before,  had  given  her 
unspotted  life  to  redeem  her  country  from  the  galling  yoke  of  a  foreign 
tyrant.  But  the  vision  of  the  inspired  Saint  of  Domremy,  and  of  the 
petty  and  blood-stained  subverter  of  the  free  constitution  and  liberty  of 
France,  and  of  the  contrast  of  the  two  passed,  and  she  who  saw  them 
went  to  the  beautiful  Alp-land  to  breathe  its  free  republican  atmosphere. 
They  went  by  rail  to  the  quaint  old  town  of  Dijohn,  and  thence  by  dili- 
gence to  Geneva.  Here  they  took  up  their  residence,  and  while  Mr.  Bolton 
engaged  in  the  duties  of  his  office,  his  wife  and  their  daughter  began  at 
once  to  prepare  themselves  for  making  the  tour  of  Italy  and  Germany 
with  pleasure  and  profit  to  themselves.  They  perfected  their  knowledge 
of  French  and  German,  and  familiarized  themselves  as  far  as  possible 
with  the  routes  they  had  selected  and  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
people  amon^  whom  they  were  to  pass.  In  a  word,  whatever  would  most 
conduce  to  the  ends  aimed  at  by  wise  travelers  in  going  over  historical 
lands  and  studying  great  peoples  and  their  institutions  and  traditions,  was 
considered.  They  spent  nearly  a  year  thus  in  Switzerland,  before  setting 
forth  to  study  Rome  and  Germany.  But  the  Helvetian  Republic  pre- 
sented too  many  objects  of  high  poetic  interest  not  to  call  forth,  during  the 
year,  some  of  Mrs.  Bolton's  loftiest  and  sweetest  songs.  Among  these 
may  be  noticed  here.  "  Diodati,"  the  residence  of  Lord  Byron,  where,  in 
1816,  he  wrote  "Manfred"  and  the  third  canto  of  "Childo  Harold;' 
•♦The  Chateau  de  Pregney.*  the  residence  in  Switzerland  of  the  Empress 
J  osephinc ;  "A  Day  at  Ouchy .  on  Lake  Leman,"  and  a  poem  "  To  Geneva." 
It  is  enough  to  name  these  bright  witnesses  to  the  happy  influences 
exerted  upon  the  genius  of  Mrs.  Bolton  by  the  new  and  grand  scenes  in 
which  it  found  itself  in  Europe.  These,  however,  are  but  the  first  fruits 
of  her  fertile  genius  in  it&  inspiring  circumstances  at  Geneva.  Before  the 
end  of  their  first  year  there,  both  mother  and  daughter  found  themselves 
ready  to  go  forth  into  Italy  and  Germany  to  study  their  monuments  of  a 
departed  civilization,  sublime  in  ruin  and  decay,  and  the  still  grander 
monuments  of  art,  the  eternal  heralds  of  u  civilization  that  shall  abide 
forever. 

XLIV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

They  set  out  for  Rome  in  March,  1856,  and  arrived  there  on  the  30th 
day  of  the  month.  A  letter  to  her  husband,  dated  April  2d,  gives  us  a 
peep  into  the  cozy  little  home  which  wife  and  daughter  had  established 
for  themselves  in  the  "  Eternal  City."  She  says  to  him  "  I  do  wish  you 
could  take  a  clairvoyant  view  of  our  little  park)r  to-night.  It  is  about 
sixteen  by  eighteen  feet ;  the  ceiling  done  in  a  sort  of  fresco ;  the  floor 
covered  with  a  blue  and  brown  carpet;  the  one  large  window  hung  with 
a  very  beautiful  curtain ;  the  two  sofas  covered  to  match  the  carpet ;  one 
center-table;  one  side-board:  one  marble  table,  with  a  mirror;  eight  cane- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  a  nice  little  stove."  And  having  described  her  parlor 
and  invoiced  its  furniture,  she  thus  alludes  to  some  of  her  surroundings 
on  that  happy  morning  •  '•  It  is  eight  o'clock.  Some  one  in  the  next 
room  is  making  exquisite  music  on  the  piano.  Sallie  is  reading  Italian 
with  the  daughter  of  our  landlady,  and  I  am  writing  to  you  at  the  center- 
table,  covered  with  books  and  cards  and  adorned  with  a  vase  of  beautiful 
violets,  which  I  bought  in  the  market  this  morning  for  five  cents."  She 
then  gives  a  description  of  their  bed-room,  their  mode  of  life,  and  the  cost 
of  it,  and  concludes  by  saying.  *You  see  that  our  living,  exclusive  of 
house  rent,  does  not  cost  us  a  dollar  a  day,  so  that,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
thousand  other  expenses  that  sight-seekers  must  incur,  one  could  live  very 
cheaply  in  '  the  Eternal  City.'  " 

Having  thus  let  husband  and  father  know  how  they  were  situated,  they 
proceed,  day  after  day,  to  look  at  and  study  the  ruins  of  Rome,  and  after 
glancing  ac  what  they  have  seen,  'Mrs.  Bolton  says  .  '••  This  city  is  the 
museum  of  the  world,  the  record  of  ages,  the  glory  of  genius.  Scribblers 
may  write  volumes  of  description,  painters  may  copy  its  antiquities,  poets 
may  weave  its  glories  into  immortal  song,  but  when  they  have  exhausted 
ali  their  powers,  the  traveler  will  look  upon  its  monuments  and  exclaim: 
'  The  half  has  not  been  told.' "  The  ruins  of  the  Coliseum  seemed  to 
exert  a  fascinating  power  over  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Bolton,  almost  equal  to 
that  which  the  grim  and  horrible  exhibitions  once  offered  there  to  amuse 
the  Romans  exercised  over  that  terrible  people.  Day  after  day  she  visited 
and  studied  the  mighty  pile.  She  renewed  its  combats,  in  imagination, 
no  doubt;  saw  all  its  horrors  repeated,  and  listened  to  the  roar  of  the 
excited  multitude  of  brave  men  and  fair  women  who  found  rapturous 
delight  in  the  violent  and  agonizing  death  of  their  fellow-men,  and  then, 

XLV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

looking  around  upon  the  silent  amphitheatre  and  the  crumbling  walls, 
rejoiced  in  the  righteous  order  of  that  Providence  which  governs  the 
world,  and  "at  last  sets  all  things  even."  She  says,  in  one  of  her  letters: 
♦•  I  dreamed  that  1  heard  grand  music,  and  saw  a  thousand  gay  banners. 
the  glittering  robes  of  royalty,  the  white  veiled  vestal  virgms,  the  eager 
faces  of  the  wild  populace,  the  five  thousand  ravenous  beasts,  and 
the  bloody  gladiators.  And  then  I  heard  the  roar  of  the  wild  animals, 
and  saw  the  crimson  banners  waved,  heard  the  brazen  trumpets  sound, 
and  fair  women  applaud  the  bloody  onset ;  but  it  was  too  horrible,  and  I 
awoke — awoke  to  find  the  ivy  windmg  its  long  arms  over  the  broken 
arches,  the  flowers  blooming  and  the  birds  building  their  nests  where  all 
this  glitter  and  glory,  terror  and  death  had  been.  0,  Rome !  dead  mis- 
tress of  a  buried  world !  though  thy  shroud  is  grey  with  the  mildew  of 
ages,  there  is  a  terrible  beauty  in  thine  aspect  still!" 

They  remained  in  Eome  about  five  weeks,  during  which  they  de- 
voted their  entire  time  to  the  work  of  examining  and  studying  its  monu- 
ments, ruins  and  works  of  art.  How  much  of  all  these  they  saw,  how 
wisely  they  selected  objects  of  interest  for  examination  and  study,  and 
how  appreciative  and  thorough  was  th,eir  labor  to  learn  what  was  best  and 
noblest  in  all  they  saw  and  considered,  can  be  known  only  to  those  who 
have  read  Mrs.  Bolton's  letters  to  her  husband,  generally  written  at  night, 
touching  what  had  been  seen  during  the  day.  The  fresh,  vigorous,  off- 
hand views  of  the  men  and  institutions  of  the  Roman  world,  that  fill 
every  sentence  and  brighten  every  line,  display  an  insight  into  the  spirit 
and  drift  of  that  grand  people,  and  a  knowledge  of  the  working  and  out- 
come of  its  institutions,  that  interests,  captivates  and  satisfies  us.  Her 
exqusite  sympathy  for  all  that  is  noble  and  inspiring  in  the  history  and 
legends  of  the  place  and  its  people,  is  at  once  as  gentle  and  unconscious 
as  that  of  childhood  for  the  objects  and  persons  that  delight  it,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  just  and  strong  that  it  carries  the  reader  along  with  it,  con- 
senting to  go  whithersoever  it  listeth.  Hers,  however,  is  always  a  true 
and  discriminating  sympathy,  bathing  whatever  is  useful,  just,  beautiful 
and  good  in  the  divine  radiance  of  genius,  and  lending  a  charm  to  all, 
which,  in  the  common  and  grosser  atmosphere,  they  do  not  possess.  In 
every  page  we  are  made  to  realize  that  the  highest  love  of  our  rare  i^  not 
that  which  concerns  itself  with  the  people  of  to-day.    They  are  two  nna 

XLVI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

us  to  awaken  it  within  us.  It  is  impossible  to  divest  them  of  much  that 
is  mean,  low  and  bad.  The  passions  of  the  flesh  defile  them  and  make 
them  unlovely.  Even  the  greatest  and  the  highest  character,  seen  too 
near,  in  actual  life,  while  it  displays  much  that  is  noble  and  tends  to  inspire 
our  respect  and  love,  will,  at  times,  be  touched  by  the  weaknesses  and 
tarnished  by  the  wickednesses  which  force  us  to  turn  our  eyes  away  with 
regret  and  shame  from  the  moral  defilements  that  degrade  and  destroy  the 
least  and  the  lowest.  As  distance  in  time  is  essential  to  the  right  seeing 
and  just  setting  forth  of  the  truths  of  history  in  their  relation  to  each 
other  and  to  the  career  of  nations  and  mankind,  so  is  it  necessary  to  the 
cleansing  of  the  characters  of  great  men  and  peoples  from  the  moral  dross 
of  selfishness,  and  the  leaving  of  them  before  the  mind  and  heart  of  suc- 
ceeding generations,  as  the  just  objects  of  unalloyed  admiration  and  love. 
In  no  writings  with  which  we  are  familiar  are  the  noble  names  of  the 
great  men  and  women  of  the  olden  time  brought  out  and  rounded  so  well 
and  perfectly  as  in  her  letters.  She  compels  us  to  feel  that  these  are  the 
real  representatives  of  the  race — the  only  people  worthy  of  our  unstinted 
and  undoubting  love ;  for  their  patriotism  or  philanthropy,  as  they  gave 
themselves  to  country  or  to  mankind,  stands  out,  without  fleck  or  flaw,  to 
fascinate  the  eye  and  fix  the  heart.  Their  faults  are  lost  with  their  ashes, 
even  to  thought.  Their  virtues  and  their  lofty  deeds  and  generous  motives, 
informed  and  inspired  by  the  soul  of  goodness  and  love,  alone  survive,  to 
plead  for  virtue  and  goodness  in  us  and  in  all,  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  for- 
ever. And  so,  the  ideals  of  history,  like  the  creations  of  genius,  become 
our  teachers  and  leaders  in  every  good  word  and  work. 

It  was  our  intention  to  quote  from  the  correspondence  of  Mrs.  Bolton, 
illustrations  of  the  general  result  just  set  forth,  but  our  space  is  limited, 
and  we  are  compelled  to  withhold  for  the  present  from  the  reader  some  of 
the  most  pleasing  and  instructive  pages  in  literature. 

Leaving  Rome  about  the  first  of  May,  Mrs.  Bolton  and  her  daughter 
proceeded  at  once  to  Florence,  where  they  renewed  their  studies  in  art 
and  revived  all  the  generous  memories  that  cluster  and  cling  round  that 
magnificent  Capital.  But  we  must  not  open  the  lx)ok,  much  less  attempt 
to  scrap  it  here.  It  must  remain  closed  until  happier  times  shall  give  it 
to  the  world — "a  thing  of  beauty"  and  "a  joy  forever." 

XLvn 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.   BOLTON. 

Mrs.  Bolton  and  her  daughter  returned  from  Florence  to  Geneva  in 
the  early  summer.  The  bracing  climate  of  Switzerland  soon  restored 
their  energies,  almost  exhausted  by  the  work  of  their  Italian  campaign, 
and  they  were  again  ready  to  set  forth  upon  their  travels.  They  had 
already  determined  to  devote  the  fall  months  to  a  journey  through  Ger- 
many, to  visit  its  historic  shrines  and  other  attractions.  As  soon  as  the 
season  of  heat  had  passed  they  were  ready  to  set  forth;  and  we  find  her 
writing  to  her  husband  from  Strasbourg  under  date  of  September  13, 
1856,  as  follows:  ♦'  We  left  Geneva,  as  you  know,  on  the  morning  of  the 
10th  instant.  The  weather  was  fine,  the  company  pleasant  and  the  motion 
of  the  steamer  delightful.  The  green  hills  and  white  villas  on  one  shore, 
and  the  soft  mists,  like  satin  curtains  looped  with  silver,  hung  round 
the  other,  and  seemed  to  shut  out  a  world  of  wondrous  beauty,  the  sum- 
mer sky  witji  its  cloud-islands  above  us,  and  the  blue  lake  with  its  grave 
old  associations  beneath  us,  are  beautiful  pictures  in  my  memory  forever." 
They  stopped  on  their  way  to  Basle,  at  Neufchatel,  and,  while  they  were 
visiting  some  of  its  places  of  interest,  were  left  there  by  the  boat.  They 
were  thus  under  the  necessity  of  paying  a  second  fare,  and  of  going  to 
Basle  by  land.  Of  this  trip  she  says :  "At  seven  o'clock  we  set  out  once 
more,  f  .id  in  fifteen  hours  arrived  at  Basle.  It  was  a  harder  and  longer 
journey  than  we  should  have  had  by  steamboat,  but  we  were  more  than 
recompensed  by  the  magnificence  of  the  scenery.  It  is  called  the  most 
beautiful  route  in  Switzerland,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  world.  Lakes  and  mountains,  blue  rivers  and  dancing  waterfalls, 
luxuriant  valleys  and  green  hills,  in  endless  combinations  of  wondrous 
loveliness,  make  up  the  splendid  panorama." 

At  Basle  they  visited  the  places  of  chief  note,  and  devoted  much 
time  to  its  Cathedral  and  to  associations  connected  with  it.  She  remem- 
bered that  the  great  scholar  Erasmus  lies  buried  within  it,  and  recalled 
his  friendship  for  Sir  Thomas  More,  Lord  Ohancellor  of  England,  under 
Henry  the  Eighth,  an  association  which  suggests  a  humorous  stanza 
written  by  the  former  to  the  latter,  in  answer  to  a  request  to  return  a 
palfrey  which  he  had  loaned  his  scholarly  friend.  They  differed,  it  seems, 
in  respect  to  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiation,  and  Erasmus  employed 
the  same  argument  in  his  stanza  whicli  had  been  made  use  of  by  his 

XLVin 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

friend  in  support  of  that  doctrine,  as  his  reason    or  not  returning  the 
palfrey.     In  that  lies  its  point : 

♦'  Quod  mihi  dixisti 

De  corpore  Ohristi, 
Crede  quod  edis,  et  edis: 

Sic  tibi  rescribo, 

De  tuo  palfrido, 
Crede  quod  habes,  et  habes." 

She  also  saw  a  part  of  the  "  Dance  of  Death  "'  in  bas  relief  upon  the 
Cathedral,  said  to  be  much  older  than  Holbein,  who  has  the  credit  of 
having  created  it.  The  autographs  of  Luther,  Melancthon  and  Erasmus 
did  not  fail  to  attract  her  attention.  Such  associations  gave  rise  to  many 
poetical  ideas,  which  constantly  find  expression  in  her  letters. 

From  Basle  they  went  to  Strasbourg,  and,  scarcely  taking  time  for 
refreshments,  hastened  to  its  wonderful  Cathedral,  of  which  she  says :  "  I 
had  heard  of  the  Cathedral  from  my  childhood,  and,  of  course,  had 
painted  its  picture  in  my  imagination,  but  the  reality  far  surpassed  the 
ideal.  Nothing  but  the  Church  of  Notre  Dame  at  Rouen  can  give  you 
any  idea  of  the  elaborate  workmanship  of  its  immense  tower  and  princi- 
pal facades.  There  are  groups  of  prophets,  martyrs,  saints  and  angels, 
popes,  prelates  and  apostles,  holy  families,  holy  fathers,  monks,  nuns, 
bishops  and  cardinals,  in  every  possible  place  and  position.  O,  what  story 
tellers  of  the  past  are  these  grand  old  minsters,  with  their  gothic  arches, 
stained  windows  and  dim  religious  light  I  What  volumes  are  written  on 
the  old  gray  stones,  that  the  busy  present  has  no  time  to  read."  She 
ascended  the  tower  and  tells  us  what  she  saw  from  it.  "From  this  high 
perch,"  she  says,  "  we  saw  the  sunset,  and  a  lovelier  sight  I  never  beheld. 
Below  us  the  quaint  old  town,  with  its  high,  pointed  roofs,  its  gray  towers, 
and  its  flower- wreathed  balconies,  its  fountains,  statues  and  terraced  gar- 
dens— on  one  side  the  broad  Rhine,  brightening  and  sparkling  in  the 
distance,  like  a  band  of  burnished  silver;  farther  away  fair  Baden-Baden, 
sleeping  in  the  great  arms  of  the  black  forest ;  on  the  other  side  green 
slopes  and  fertile  valleys,  dotted  with  human  homes,  stretching  away  to 
the  foot  of  the  Vosges  Mountains,  whose  brows  were  bound  with  the 
crimson  glory  of  the  dying  day.     After  writing  our  names  in  a  book, 

XLIX  ^'^ 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

which  is  kept  here  for  that  purpose,  going  higher,  higher  up  to  see  the 
bell,  which  is  enormous,  looking  at  the  machinery  of  the  great  clock» 
which  has  wheels  as  large  as  those  of  a  wagon;  promenading  every  gallery, 
looking  over  every  balcony,  reading  the  name  of  Goethe,  carved  by  his 
own  hand  in  the  old  gray  stone,  putting  our  noses,  like  Dickens's  Mr. 
Davis,  into  every  hole  and  corner,  we  were  reminded  by  the  storks  going 
to  their  homes  among  the  tall  chimneys  and  gray  roofs,  that  it  was  time 
to  descend."  She  does  not  fail  to  inspect  and  describe  the  cloci^  with  great 
particularity  and  clearness,  but  the  description  is  too  long  for  our  space. 
The  monument  of  Marshal  Saxe  attracted  her  attention,  and  she  says  of 
it :  "  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  allegories  in  marble  I  ever  saw.  The 
Marshal,  surrounded  by  the  emblems  and  trophies  of  a  hundred  victories, 
is  seen  descending  into  the  tomb,  which  is  opened  by  Death,  wrapped  in 
a  winding  sheet ;  only  part^of  the  fleshless  face  and  one  skeleton  foot  are 
uncovered,  but  the  position  and  action  of  the  terrible  figure  are  so  truthful 
tbat  you  are  almost  cheated  into  the  belief  that  the  fearful  scene  is  passing 
before  you.  A  beautiful  female  figure  tries  to  detain  tlie  Marshal  with 
one  hand,  and  to  stay  the  fell  destroyer,  while  Hercules,  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  tomb,  weops  that  so  much  strength  and  bravery  should  go 
down  to  the  sleep  of  death.  Every  figure  is  intensely  life-like,  and  alto- 
gether it  is  a  most  startling  and  wonderful  group,"  Another  monument, 
however,  won  from  Mrs.  Bolton  a  far  more  sympathetic  examination  and 
consideration.  It  was  that  of  Guttenberg,  the  inventor  of  printing.  She 
says :  " It  is  a  grand  square,  called  the  '  Place  de  tittenberg'  He  stands 
holding  in  his  hand  a  scroll  on  which  is  written  in  gold,  '  Et  la  lumiere  fut' 
And  there  was  light !  The  pedestal  is  covered  with  has  reliefs,  setting 
forth  some  of  the  great  events  brought  about  by  the  'art  preservative  of 
all  arts.*  Among  them  is  a  group  of  which  we  were  not  a  little  proud. 
It  represents  Franklin  standing  by  his  printing  press,  surrounded  by  the 
signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  with  Washington  and  La 
Fayette,  and  others  of  our  Revolutionary  fathers.  It  is  a  pleasant  thing 
to  see  those  familiar  faces  and  dear  home  names  engraven  on  the  marble 
of  an  old  monarchy.  I  wonder  that  Louis  Napoleon  allows  this  silent 
preacher  of  republicanism  to  exist  in  his  dominions." 

From  Strasbourg  they  passed  to  Baden-Baden,  where  they  staid  from 
the  fifteenth  oi  September  until  the  second  ol  October.  Here  she  closely 
observed  all  things  worthy  of  notice,  both  old  and  new,  in  this  fair  resort 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

of  those  who  seek  health  and  pleasure,  and  did  not  fail  to  see  through  the 
thin  disguises  which  hide  from  the  common  observer,  the  wretchedness  and 
misery  that  poison  the  life  of  the  gay  revellers  in  the  halls  of  fashion. 
'•■  Fair  Baden-Baden,"  she  exclain)s,  '•  What  art  thou  with  thy  wondrous 
beauty,  thy  overflowing  life,  and  thy  surpassing  gaiety  ?  Art  thou  an 
oasis  in  the  great  world,  where  the  chidlren  of  men  forget  their  sorrows, 
and  the  flowers  of  hope  bloom  forever?  O,  no;  many  a  sad  heart  mingles 
with  thy  laughing  revellers,  and  bitter  tears  fall  in  thy  fair  places,  and  old 
memories  of  the  loved  and  the  lost  haunt  thy  lighted  palaces,  for  the  soul's 
garments  are  of  its  own  weaving  and  pleasure  is  not  always  born  of 
beauty."  The  old  castle  is  visited  and  its  legend, recited,  and  the  new 
castle  considered  and  contrasted  with  the  old.  She  even  goes  down  into 
its  terrible  prisons,  of  which  she  says :  '<  The  palace  is  really  interesting 
to  strangers  only  on  account  of  its  dungeons.  These  are  numerous,  so 
dark  and  so  fearfully  lonely  that  it  almost  makes  me  sick  to  pass  through 
them.  Most  of  them  are  excavated  in  the  solid  rock  and  have  for  doors  solid 
slabs  of  stone  a  foot  thick,  and  some  of  them  weighing  two  thousand 
pounds.  One  vault,  larger  than  the  rest,  is  called  the  hall  of  the  secret 
tribunal.  The  stone  bench  where  the  judges  sat  still  remains  along  one 
side  of  it,  but  there  is  no  window  or  loophole  where  a  ray  of  light  or  a 
breath  of  air  can  enter.  Another  is  called  the  rack  chamber.  A  row  of 
hoops  and  iron  rings,  fastened  in  the  wall,  are  all  that  remain  of  the  instru- 
ments of  torture.  In  a  passage  leading  from  this  chamber,  there  is  a  deep 
pit,  which  was  covered  with  a  trap-door.  The  condemned  prisoner  was 
placed  on  this  trap-door  and  told  to  kiss  the  image  of  the  Virgin,  which 
was  in  a  niche  above  it.  As  he  did  this  the  door  gave  way  and  precipi- 
tated him  into  the  pit,  where  he  fell  on  wheels  full  of  knives  and  lancets, 
which  cut  him  to  pieces.  When  the  light  of  civilization  shone  into  these 
terrible  dungeons,  this  oubliette  was  found  half  full  of  human  bones  and 
fragments  of  cloth,  the  remains  of  dead  men's  clothes.  The  winding 
stairway  that  leads  to  these  vaults  is  a  modern  innovation.  In  the  old 
days  the  only  entrance  was  a  shaft  running  through  the  centre  of  the 
palace.  Through  this  the  prisoner  was  let  down  by  a  windlass  to  doom, 
bound  in  an  armed  chair  and  blindfolded.  This  terrible  shaft  is  yet  in 
existence.  We  passed  under  it  and  looked  up.  It  opens  only  at  the  top 
of  the  castle,  and  we  could  see  nothing  but  a  bit  of  blue  sky  far,  far 
away.    O,  the  cruelty  of  the  fifteenth  century !    May  the  good  Lord  avert 

LI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

it?  like  from  tho  comini:^  ages.  It  is  only  in  a  place  like  this  that  wc  com- 
prehend the  tyranny  and  darkness  of  the  past,  and  appreciate  the  light 
and  happiness  of  the  present.''  From  these  scenes  she  turns  away  and 
walks  over  the  little  Staufen,  "  listening  to  the  low,  sweet  laughter  of  its 
streams  and  the  wild,  grand  music  of  its  lofty  pines.  If  you  have  never 
been  in  a  great  pine  forest  when  the  autumn  winds  were  sighing,  I  can 
give  you  but  little  idea  of  its  thrilling  harmonies.  Every  tree  seems  to 
play  upon  a  different  instrument.  Now  they  sing,  like  gray-haired  min- 
strels in  a  chieftain's  hall,  of  steel-clad  knights  and  ladies  fair,  and  merry 
wassail,  and  baronial  homes,  of  gallant  deeds  in  tilt  and  tournament,  and 
Paynim  banners  won  in  Palestine.  Then  the  strain  changes  to  a  solemn 
dirge,  that  sobs  and  wails  through  the  grim  shadows  and  gray  glooms  of 
the  forest,  like  the  voice  of  an  unquiet  ghost.  Now  it  rises  and  swells  to 
an  exultant  burst,  like  the  far  off  shouts  of  a  victorious  host,  then  it  gathers 
all  its  strength  and  peals  forth  the  grandest  Te  Deum  that  ever  trembled 
to  the  gates  of  heaven.  Nature  has  many  voices,  touching  and  beautiful. 
but  the  sweetest,  the  most  sublime,  are  the  hymns  played  by  the  autumn 
winds  in  the  tops  of  the  mountain  pines."  Nor  did  she  fail  to  hear  other 
and  sadder  music  while  at  Baden-Baden,  for  her  eyes  and  ears  were  open 
to  see'and  hear  all  sights  and  sounds.  From  the  Convent  of  Lichtenthal 
she  listened  to  the  evening  hymn  of  the  nuns.  •*  We  heard  them,"  she 
says,  "  and  such  voices  I  never  heard  before,  and  never  expect  to  hear 
again.  The  sounds  rung  through  the  dim  aisles  and  high  arches  of  the 
old  church  like  the  wail  of  sorrowful  and  suffering  hearts.  It  was  full  of 
tears,  of  tenderness,  of  pity,  of  prayer.  Doubtless  these  solitary  and 
devoted  women  accomplish  much  good  by  their  works  of  charity.  But 
it  makes  one  sad  to  think  of  their  crushed  and  subdued  human  affections, 
human  hopes,  and  human  joys.  Surely  God's  creatures  can  honor  Him 
more  by  serving  Him  in  the  midst  of  temptation  than  by  hiding  them- 
selves away  in  the  seclusion  of  tke  cloister,  where  faith  has  fewer  trials  to 
endure  and  the  heart  fewer  temptations  to  lead  it  astray."  At  last,  when 
ri»ady  to  depart  from  this  home  of  fashion  and  of  pleasure,  she  thus 
addresses  her  farewell  words  to  it:  "  Fair  Baden-Baden,  it  makes  mo  sad 
to  think  that  I  shall  never  .see  thee  again.  But  there  is  no  stopping  in 
these  old  lands,  be  they  never  so  beautiful.  They  are  not  our  home.  No, 
no,  'home,  sweet  home,*  let  me  go  back  to  it  over  the  blue  sea.  The  hills 
and  valleys,  the  rivers  and  ruins  of  this  old  world  are  written  all  over 


THE  LIP^E  OF  SARAH  T.  UOLTON. 

with  beautiful  poems,  and  I  love  to  read  them  for  a  time ;  but  my  cyos 
would  soon  grow  tired  of  seeing,  and  my  feet  weary  with  wandering 
where  my  heart  has  no  home.  Then  let  me  go  back  to  our  own  young 
land,  where  nature  has  painted  the  grandest  pictures  that  the  sun  ever 
shone  on,  and  where  man  has  scarcely  had  time  to  write  his  name." 

The  same  day  they  left  Baden-Baden  they  arrived  at  Heidelberg, 
where  they  remained  five  days,  seeing,  before  their  departure,  all  its  places 
of  fame,  and  making  themselves  familiar  with  its  beautiful  legends  and 
grand  historical  memories.  Her  description  of  her  journey  to  the  place 
is  at  once  graphic  and  inspiring.  She  says :  "  Over  battle-fields  where 
warriors  won  great  victories  long  ago;  by  Koman  towers  which  have  with- 
stood the  winds  and  winters  of  two  thousand  years ;  over  plains  where 
cities  once  flourished  that  have  passed  away ;  by  feudal  palaces  and  feudal 
prisons,  now  mouldering  to  decay;  by  the  graves  of  the  past  and  the 
monuments  of  its  greatness,  flies  that  child  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
iron-horse,  with  his  fiery  eyes,  his  burning  breath,  and  his  strong  young 
heart.  He  may  bring  white  bread  to  the  poorest  homes  in  Rhineland,  and 
yellow  gold  to  its  palaces,  but  alas  for  the  Zauberins  and  White  Ladies 
that  haunted  its  ruins!  And  alas  for  the  Undines  and  Mummelmaids 
that  live  in  its  waters !  The  voice  of  this  swift  giant  will  frighten  them 
away  forever  I  And  alas  for  the  dear  old  legends  written  all  over  its  hills 
and  valleys,  he  will  blot  them  out,  like  dreams,  from  the  German  heart; 
but  he  will  give  gold  for  the  poetry  of  the  past."  No  one  has  better  told 
the  story  of  the  Wolfs.  Brunnen,  or  entered  more  deeply  into  sympathy 
with  the  spirit  of  the  place.  It  is  delightful  to  find  her  searching  the 
graveyard  which  surrounds  St.  Peters  for  the  tomb  of  one  of  her  early 
ideals — that  of  Olympia  Marata — and  one  feels  his  heart  beat  stronger  in 
sympathy  with  the  joy  that  moves  her  when  she  finds  it.  '•  I  had  read 
her  history  years  ago,"  she  says,  "  but  had  quite  forgotten  that  she  was 
buried  here.  Beautiful,  learned,  wonderful  woman  I  She  fled  from  per- 
secutions of  her  own  fair  Italy,  only  to  find  a  grave  in  a  strange  land. 
She  died  in  her  bloom,  but  the  people  loved  her,  and  her  worth  is  not  for- 
gotten.' The  evening  of  October  6,  she  closes  her  letter  of  Heidelberg  by 
saying :  "  Sallie  is  asleep,  and  I  ought  to  be.  for  our  trunks  are  packed  and 
we  shall  start  to-morrow  morning  at  seven  o'clock  for  Manhiem.  So  good 
night." 

Lin 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

The  next  day  they  passed  to  Manheim,  and  stopping  at  Ludwigshafen 
on  the  Bavarian  side  oi'  the  Rhine,  inquired  for  the  house  and  grave  of 
Kotzbue.  "  His  house,  the  same  in  which  he  was  murdered  by  the  mad- 
man, is  a  plain,  simple  stone  structure,  facing  a  busy  street.  I  did  not  see 
a  tree,  nor  flower,  nor  grass  plot  about  it.  Yet  he  must  have  loved  the 
beautiful,  for  he  had  a  poet's  soul."  The  next  day,  in  her  letter  from 
Mayence,  she  recurs  to  Kotzbue,  and  becomes  enthusiastic  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  his  home. 

At  Worms  they  visited  the  places  of  most  conspicuous  historic  interest, 
and  she  gives  us  a  glowing  retrospect  of  the  place  and  the  great  transac- 
tions which  have  given  it  peculiar  renown — a  retrospect  which  seems  to  have 
passed  in  her  mind  while  walking  through  its  Gothic  cathedral.  "We 
passed  an  hour  or  two,"  she  says, "  wandering  through  its  venerable  aisles, 
looking  at  its  faded  pictures,  broken  statues  and  mouldy  frescoes,  and 
thinking  of  the  generations  who  have  passed  over  its  worn  pavements 
and  worshipped  before  its  altars  for  a  thousand  years ;  but  they  are  all 
gone.  Earth  has  lost  the  fashion  of  their  faces,  and  their  voices  are  not 
heard  in  the  land  of  the  living.  We  ascended  one  of  the  domes  and 
looked  down  on  the  quiet  city.  On  one  side  a  dim  gray  veil  of  twilight 
covered  the  distant  mountains;  on  the  other  side  the  pale  blue  sky  seemed 
to  kiss  the  fair  valleys  that  the  Minne-singers  loved  so  well.  Peace,  rest 
and  silence  brooded  over  the  old  city,  and  my  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
days  of  its  glory,  when  it  was  the  richest  and  the  fairest  of  the  imperial 
free  cities  of  the  Rhine.  And,  farther  away  into  the  dim  past  I  looked, 
and  an  emperors  palace  rose  in  the  midst  of  the  city,  and  magnificent 
villas  dotted  its  campagne,  and  celebrated  men  of  all  lands  dwelt  in  it, 
and  gallant  knights  and  noble  women  thronged  its  palaces.  And  Charle- 
magne and  his  fair  bride  swept  through  its  streets  with  their  brilliant 
attendants,  heralds,  guards,  soldiers,  music  and  banners.  I  heard  and  saw 
them  ail,  and  Worms  was  beautiful  with  its  triumphal  arches,  gay  gar- 
lands and  happy  people.  But  the  dream  faded,  and  the  old  city  sat  beneath 
the  old  cathedral,  like  a  gray-haired  pilgrim  who  had  seen  many  years 
and  suffored  many  sorrows."  Here  the  mother's  hand  wearied,  and  would 
write  no  more,  and  the  daughter  took  up  the  pen  and  continued  the  letter, 
giving  a  clear  and  neat  account  of  Luther's  elm  tree,  the  tradition  of 
which  is  that  •*  Luther,  when  on  his  way  to  the  Diet  of  Worms,  whence 

LIV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

he  had  been  cited  to  account  for  his  new  and  extraordinary  doctrines,  sat 
down  beneath  this  venerable  tree.  Here  many  of  his  friends  surrounded 
him  and  entreated  him  not  to  brave  the  august  assembly  before  which  he 
was  to  appear,  setting  before  him  the  punishment  to  which  he  was  exposing 
himself.  'I  would  go  to  Worms/  said  Luther — 'I  would  go  to  Worms 
even  though  there  were  as  many  devils  within  its  walls  as  there  are  tiles 
on  its  houses.'  History  speaks  not  as  to  what  reply  his  friends  urged  to 
this  emphatic  declaration,  but  certain  it  is,  Luther  did  go  to  Worms." 
From  the  tree  she  follows  the  great  apostle  of  the  reformation  into  the  city 
and  to  the  Bishop's  court,  and  adds :  "  On  the  northern  side  of  the 
cathedral  we  came  to  the  garden  of  the  Bishop's  court,  still  surrounded 
with  its  ancient  wall.  It  was  in  this  court  that  Luther  concluded  in 
these  memorable  words,  his  defence  before  the  Diet :  *  Hier  stehe  ich, — 
Ich  kann  7iicht  anders;    Gott  helfe  mir: — Amenr' 

From  Worms  they  hastened  to  Mayence,  of  their  visit  to  which  we 
have  an  interesting  account  in  her  next  letter.  It  is  in  this  letter  that 
her  heart  finds  vent,  and  pours  out  its  deep  and  exhaustless  sympathies 
for  the  poor  and  pity  for  their  hard  lol.  Especially  does  she  express  her 
woraanly  sense  of  the  outrageous  treatment  of  the  poor  women  who  serve 
in  the  Cathedral,  thus :  '•  W"e  found  several  groups  of  wretched  looking 
women,  in  different  parts  of  the  old  minster,  on  their  knees  scrubbing  the 
marble  floors.  They  raised  their  hollow  eyes  with  a  wild  look  as  we 
passed,  and  then  betook  themselves  to  labor  again,  crawling  over  the  wet 
floor  with  their  reeking  brushes,  and  trailing  their  tatters  behind  them. 
I  looked  at  their  wasted  forms  and  hungry  faces  and  wondered  if  the 
money  expended  on  the  tombs  of  these  princes  and  prelates  might  not 
have  been  better  invested  in  the  endowment  of  some  sort  of  institution 
for  the  benefit  of  the  poor.  What  avails  it  that  these  men  were  rich  and 
fared  sumptuously  every  day?  They  have  gone  the  way  of  all  the  earth. 
What  avails  it  that  millions  of  florins  went  to  purchase  rich  marbles  to 
cover  their  senseless  dust,  and  that  long  epitaphs  were  written  to  com- 
memorate their  names  and  their  virtues  ?  The  marbles  are  only  regarded 
as  church  ornaments,  and  the  epitaphs  are  never,  or  rarely,  read;  but  the 
poor  have  lived,  suffered  and  died  in  their  ignorance,  bequeathing  their 
degraded  condition  to  their  children's  children,  and  the  consequences,  like 
a  dark  wave  in  the  ocean  of  life,  will  roll  on  to  the  shores  of  eternity," 

LV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Her  letter  from  this  place  is  redolent  of  grand  memories.  In  the  gallery 
she  saw  many  beautiful  pictures,  and  was  much  interested  in  them,  but 
concludes  by  saying:  "I  remember  one  little  nameless  thing  which 
pleased  me  very  much.  It  was  the  interior  of  a  rustic  home,  seen  by  the 
strong,  red  light  of  a  winter  fire.  The  positions  of  the  feeble  old  grand- 
parents, the  grouping  of  the  hearty,  hale  father  and  mother  and  little 
children,  and  the  sweet  face  of  the  young  daughter  whose  lover  has  just 
entered  the  door,  were  all  very  true  and  very  beautiful."  No  doubt  her 
mind,  while  looking  upon  this  little  gem,  was  carried  back  to  the  bright 
days  of  her  own  girlhood,  and  the  associations  of  that  happy  period  lent 
a  sweet  charm  to  the  picture.  She  concludes  by  saying :  "  Our  last  hour 
at  the  palace  was  spent  in  the  hail  of  Roman  antiquities.  Most  of  these 
were  dug  up  during  the  last  century  in  the  neighborhood,  and  some  of 
them  are  very  interesting.  Here  are  mutilated  statues,  which  once  adorned 
the  halls  of  some  lordly  patrician ;  rude  household  altars,  carved  with 
uncouth  gods  that  some  poor  plebeian  worshipped  ;  marble  tablets,  bearing 
the  names  of  Roman  legions  stationed  on  this  spot  two  thousand  years 
ago,  inscribed  with  the  names  of  renowned  generals  and  the  dates  of 
glorious  victories,  and  native  offerings  commemorating  great  dangers,  and 
thanking  the  gods  for  miraculous  escapes.  In  the  midst  of  things  like 
these,  I  always  fall  to  dreaming — dreaming  of  the  scenes  they  have  wit- 
nessed, of  the  stories  they  could  tell,  if  they  had  tongues  to  speak — stories 
of  trusting  love,  of  bitter  partings,  of  broken  hearts,  of  desolate  homes, 
of  lonely  watchings,  of  agonizing  prayers,  of  ponrp  and  pride,  of  pov.erty 
and  toil,  of  mourning  and  of  revelry ;  for  human  life  was  then  as  now 
made  up  of  smiles  and  tears,  of  sunshine  and  of  shadows.  Man  loved 
and  labored,  suffered  and  endured,  rejoiced  and  mourned,  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave  when  the  world  was  young  even  as  now,  when  it  is  growing 
old ;  but  the  way  was  darker  and  the  end  more  uncertain  to  the  genera- 
tions who  worshipped  the  unknown  god,  than  to  those  who  walk  to-day, 
in  the  broad  light  of  Christianity." 

Prom  Mayenco  they  passed  to  Cologne  by  steamer,  and  into  the  story 
of  the  voyage  she  weaves  a  hundred  beautiful  memories  of  the  places 
they  glide  past,  making  it  a  garland  of  flowers  that  will  remain  fresh  and 
fragrant  in  the  world's  heart  as  long  as  delightful  stories  and  poetical 
descriptions  are  dear  to  the  heart  of  mankind.    But  all  these  must  be 

LVI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

passed  here  without  more  than  notice.  At  Cologne  she  saw  everything, 
and  described  it  in  excellent  style  and  with  great  particularity.  From 
Cologne  they  went  to  Bonn  thence  to  Kolandseck  and  Coblentz,  where 
she  was  constantly  aglow  with  what  she  saw;  and  pours  out  the  story  of 
her  travels  in  a  bright  stream  of  poetical  thoughts  and  words.  Next  they 
went  to  Frankfort-on-the-Main,  where  she  hastened  to  know  what  may 
be  known,  in  a  flying  visit,  of  the  great  city's  story,  works  of  art  and 
monuments.  Then  they  hurried  away  to  Dresden,  where  she  renews  the 
same  earnest  and  rapid  study  of  the  wonders  of  that  great  Capital 
of  Saxony.  How  thoroughly  and  how  speedily  she  took  in  its  chief 
objects  must  ever  remain  a  matter  of  wonder  to  souls  less  alert  and  less 
divinely  gifted  with  the  quick  and  flashing  intuitions  of  genius.  We  can 
only  quote  a  single  paragraph  from  her  description  of  the  Dresden  gallery. 
It  is  that  in  which  she  tells  her  thoughts  and  feelings  while  studying  the 
Madonna  di  San  Sisto,  of  Raphael.  "  There  were  many  fine  portraits  of 
the  men  and  women  who  lived  in  other  ages,  painted  by  cunning  hands 
that  will  paint  no  more.  Among  these  we  noticed  Melancthon  and  Eras- 
mus, by  Cranach;  the  two  sons  of  Reubens;  Charles  First  and  his  family, 
by  Vandyke ;  Old  Parr,  who  was  one  hundred  and  fifty-one  years  old ;" 
Napoleon,  in  his  magnificent  coronation  robes,  by  Lefebre.  All  this  time 
there  was  an  undercurrent  bubbling  up  in  our  heart  and  hurrying  our  feet 
to  another  room,  and  another  picture  which  we  knew  was  there.  But  we 
smotnered  down  the  impatience  and  went  slowly  through  the  halls,  whose 
treasures  seemed  to  be  endless  and  to  grow  richer  as  we  went  on.  At 
last  we  came  to  a  room  smaller  than  the  others.  Three  sides  of  it  were 
lined  with  people.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  not  a  limb  moved :  they 
stood  there  like  statues,  with  their  eyes  fixed  in  one  direction,  and  we 
knew  that  they  looked  at  Raphael's  Madonna  di  San  Sisto.  Silently  we 
took  our  places  among  them,  and  raised  our  eyes  to  the  glorious  vision. 
It  stood  in  a  movable  frame,  and  occupied  one  side  of  the  room.  I  have 
dreamed  for  hours  before  Raphael's  Transfiguration  in  the  Vatican,  which 
is  called  the  greatest  picture  in  the  world ;  I  have  gazed  until  my  eyes 
were  dim  and  my  heart  was  full  on  Domenichino's  Communion  of  St. 
Jerome,  which  is  considered  second  only  to  the  Transfiguration,  but  never 
have  I  been  so  wrapped,  so  carried  into  another  being,  as  I  was  before 
this  wonderful  Madonna  di  San  Sisto.  The  mother  floats  in  a  celestial 
atmosphere,  holding  the  divine  child  in  her  arms.     Her  face  is  full  of 

LVII 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

sublime  human  beauty,  but  its  expression  is  serious,  mournful,  betraying 
a  consciousness  that  her  feet  are  in  a  strange  path,  that  her  mission  is  one 
which  she  can  not  fully  comprehend.  But  the  face  of  the  child  is  beyond 
the  sense  of  any  word  that  the  mind  of  man  has  conceived  or  his  lips 
learned  to  utter.  It  is  a  human  face  illuminated  with  divinity ;  an  infant's 
face  with  the  intelligence  of  a  god.  The  eyes  seem  to  look  away  into  the 
midst  of  eternity,  comprehending  that  which  was  from  the  beginning  and 
would  be  to  the  end.  They  express  infinite  pity,  compassion  for  the  suf- 
ferings and  sorrows  of  a  fallen  world,  and  infinite  love  and  power  to 
redeem  it — they  see  the  path  which  leads  to  the  scourge,  to  the  crown  of 
thorns,  to  the  cross ;  but  '  Father  forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they 
do,'  is  the  prayer  of  those  silent  lips.  "We  turned  our  eyes  to  the  won- 
dering angels  who  looked  up  from  below;  then  to  St.  Barbara,  kneeling 
in  her  youthful  beauty,  on  one  side ;  then  to  Pope  Sixtus,  an  old  man, 
trembling  with  awe,  on  the  other;  but  we  could  not  break  the  fascination 
of  those  two  sorrowful,  holy  faces.  Surely  the  angels  who  weep  over  the 
sins  and  woes  of  humanity  sat  to  the  inspired  artist  when  he  painted  them 
How  long  we  stood  before  this  picture  I  do  not  know,  for  the  soul  meas- 
ured time  not  by  the  dial,  but  we  bore  away  a  treasure  that  we  would  not 
exchange  for  much  gold — a  treasure  which  wall  be  in  our  memories  like 
a  perpetual  lamp — tending  to  exalt  our  thoughts,  refine  our  hearts,  and- 
strengthen  our  feet  in  the  paths  of  time." 

In  Dresden  they  also  visited  and  inspected  the  Green  vaults  and  their 
treasures,  passing  from  room  to  room  and  noting  the  curious  and  beautiful 
toys  which  have  drained  the  wealth  of  kingdoms,  and  now  lie  useless  to 
be  stared  at  "  with  a  silly  face  of  praise."  From  cunning  works  in  ivory, 
silver  and  gold,  they  passed  on  to  be  "  fairly  dazzled  and  bewildered  "  in 
a  "  dream-land  of  sapphires,  emeralds,  rubies,  pearls,  diamonds,"  gleaming 
and  glowing,  beaming  and  burning  above  and  below,  "till  the  sunshine, 
stealing  in  through  the  white  silken  window  curtains,  looks  like  a  pale- 
faced  beggar  in  a  royal  court.  Diamonds,  diamonds,  diamonds — how  they 
flash  and  sparkle ;  how  they  wink  at  each  other ;  how  they  laugh  at  the 
twinkling  sapphires  and  mock  the  modest  pearls !  How  proudly  they 
shine  on  the  sword-hilts  and  scabbards,  on  the  royal  robes  and  princely 
regalias  I  How  they  weave  their  glory  into  bracelets  and  brooches,  medal- 
lions and  necklaces,  crowns  and  tiaras!     How  they  magnify  themselves 

Lvni 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOI.TON. 

on  the  gala  dress  of  the  elector,  and  concentrate  their  splendor  on  the 
seven  orders  of  the  Golden  Fleece !     ••■     •■•     *    *     Yet  what  does  it  all 
amount  to  ?     Simply  a  collection  of  gorgeous  toys,  a  fine  assortment  of 
princely  playthings,  worth  millions  and  millions  of  dollars,  but  so  idle,  so 
utterly  useless,  that  the  present  age,  with  its  busy  brain  and  fluttering 
pulses,  has  scarcely  time  to  give  it  a  passing  glance,"'     It  is  then  remem- 
bered that  this  is  public  wealth,  accumulated  by  public  means,  and  her 
strong  utilitarian  sense  breaks  forth  in  answer  to  the  question,  Cui  bono  ? 
"This  wealth  was  gathered  by  the  Saxon  princes  when  they  were  far  more 
powerful  than  they  will  ever  be  again ;   when  the  mines  of  Frieberg 
promised  an  endless  revenue,  and   the   Saxon   rivers  were  paved  with 
precious  stones.     This  was  all  very  well  then,  but  the  world  has  grown, 
wiser  now,  and  humility  teaches  many  lessons  to  the  children  of  the  nine- 
teenth century   that   those  of    the  old  past  never  learned.     There  is 
wealth  enough  buried  away  in  these  eight  guarded  vaults  to  establish  a 
good  free  school  and  a  choice  circulating  library  in  every  town  and  village 
in  the  Saxon  dominions  ;  enough  to  build  steam  mills  and  steam  manu- 
factories in  every  river  that  bears  its  waters  to  the  Rhine ;  enough  to  shed 
the  light  and  beauty  of  a  new  and  better  life  on  every  heart  and  home  in 
the  Fatherland.     Yet  the  German  mother  still  twirls  her  primitive  spindle 
and  slowly  gathers  up  her  toil-won  thread,  and  the  treadle  of  the  old- 
fashioned  loom  keeps  time  to  the  shuttle  thrown  by  her  horny  hand,  and 
the  want  of  intellectual  culture  dwarfs  the  hearts  and  warps  the  souls  of 
the  little  ones  who  gather  around  her  hearthstone.     The  German  peasant 
laboriously  threshes  the  product  of  his  harvest  fields  with  the  old  flail  his 
fathers  used  when  the  world  was  in  its  infancy,  and  the  clumsy  windmill 
slowdy  grinds  the  brown  meal  to  make  his  children's  bread,  while  the 
waters  of  the  German  rivers  roll  idly  to  the  sea  and  wealth  enough  to 
buy  a  kingdom  lies  buried  in  German  palaces.     These  things  have  been 
and  will   be  until  the  children  of  the  people— the  strong-armed,  hard- 
handed  many  are  roused  from  their  lethargy  by  the  earthquake  which 
is  even  now  gathering  up  its  forces  in  the  deep  heart  of  this  old  world. 
In  the  dim  and  uncertain  light  of  their  intelligence  they  have  seen  a 
spirit  which  they  fear  to  follow ;  they  have  heard  a  voice  which  they  dare 
not  yet  obey.     They  have  heard  it  in  want  and  weariness;  they  have  heard 
it  in  the  great,  cold  world,  in  the  solemn  silence  of  their  own  hearts,  and 
they  have  listened  to  its  teaching,  but  the  time  for  action  is  not  yet.     Fair 

LIX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

plains  will  be  wet  with  a  fearful  rain,  and  bright  rivers  will  tell  a  terrible 
story  to  the  sea,  and  burning  cities  be  a  holocaust  to  war  and  death;  but 
when  the  smoke  and  blood,  the  noise  and  the  anarchy  shall  have  passed 
away,  there  will  be  empty  thrones  and  useless  crowns  in  many  lands.  The 
fathers  of  new-born  nations  will  meet  to  deliberate  in  royal  palace'-,  and 
the  peasant  will  go  forth  from  his  hearthstone  invested  with  the  rights 
and  privileges  of  a  man."  Her  democratic  principles  constantly  assert 
themselves  thus,  in  the  presence  of  the  contrast  between  the  different 
classes  of  the  old  world,  and  the  oppressions  of  the  poor  make  her  blood 
boil  with  just  indignation.  From  her  window  she  beholds  sights  that  she 
can  scarcely  endure  to  witness.  The  wrongs  of  womanhood  in  Germany 
are  seen  to  be  many  and  grievous.  One  while  she  sees  a  slight  girl  saw 
all  day  at  one  end  of  a  cross-cut  saw  against  a  stout  man  at  the  other, 
•'AH  the  forenoon  that  young  girl  has  labored  with  that  brawny  man, 
and  they  are  sawing  still.  Her  hair  is  nicely  braided  and  she  is  com- 
fortably dressed,  but  her  face  is  flushed,  her  hands  swollen,  and  the  position 
in  which  she  is  obliged  to  stand  to  balance  herself  is  most  unwomanly.'' 
She  adds :  *'  From  the  same  window  I  have  seen  another  sight,  which 
is  sickening  to  an  American.  It  was  a  woman  and  a  dog  harnessed 
together  in  a  cart,  filled  with  marketing.  I  have  seen  this  on  two  occasions 
in  this  fair  capital  The  dogs  seem  to  have  been  well  trained  to  this  labor, 
and  the  women  look  like  respectable  peasants.  Through  the  great  thor- 
oughfares, crowded  with  fashionable  promenaders,  went  the  woman  and 
the  huge  dog,  side  by  side.  No  one  looked  surprised,  no  one  seemed  to  see 
anything  unusual,  so  I  suppose  it  is  a  common  thing.  To  me  it  was  a 
sad  Bight,  and  a  sure  proof  that  the  people  of  Saxony  are  far  behind 
the  spirit  of  the  age  in  wihch  they  live." 

From  Dresden  they  went  to  Berlin,  and  thence  to  Weimar.  At 
Berlin  she  saw  and  heard  Ristori  in  the  tragedyof  the  «« Roman  Mother." 
Her  description  of  the  play  and  the  actress  are,  we  doubt  not,  equal  to 
either,  but  too  long  for  our  use.  At  Weimar  she  seems  to  have  floated  in 
an  atmosphere-of  inspiration  and  glory.  Goethe  and  Schiller  were  every- 
where. Every  scene  was,  to  her  heart  and  mind,  holy.  Nothing  that 
they  had  seen,  or  handled,  or  touched  was  indifferent  to  her.  But  it  is 
plain  that,  while  she  admired  both,  she  loved  Schiller.  Goethe  was  too 
great,  too  cold,  too  distant  to  inspire  the  affections  that  came  unbidden 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

to  her  heart  at  the  mere  mention  of  Schiller.  Him  she  follows  in  imag- 
ination through  every  stage  of  his  glorious  career  until  he  descends  into 
the  grave,  and  does  not  abandon  him  there  until  its  portals  shut  him  for- 
ever from  human  sight.  "  I  saw  him  in  my  revery.  He  laid  on  his  bed 
in  the  little  workroom  by  the  window  where  he  saw  the  last  sunset.  His 
face  was  very  pale — cold  shadows  deepened  in  his  dying  eyes,  and  his 
white  lips  murmured,  *Now  is  life  clear — so  much  is  made  clear  and 
plain!'  So  his  spirit  went  up  to  Him  who  gave  it."  She  goes  from  his 
death  chamber  to  his  grave,  and  through  her  eyes  we  see  him  buried 
"  in  the  silent  night.  The  sky  was  covered  with  a  pall  when  they 
bore  him  from  his  home  forever  Wildly  the  red  light  flashed  amid  the 
darkness — sadly  the  night  winds  sighed  round  the  solemn  grave,  as  they 
lowered  the  dust  of  the  noble  and  gifted  to  its  last  rest.  At  that  moment 
the  moon  swept  out  from  her  sombre  curtain  and  poured  a  flood  of  glory 
into  his  grave.  Men  looked  at  each  other  strangely,  and  hands,  lifted  to 
cover  the  sleeper,  fell,  and  eyes  that  seldom  wept  were  tearful  as  that 
silver  light  stole  down  into  the  silent  grave.  It  was  a  starnge  and  a 
beautiful  token,  that  last  gift  of  nature  to  the  poet's  heart."  And,  having 
visited  his  grave,  she  returned  to  her  room  to  write:  "Yes,  Frederick 
Schiller,  I  wept  beside  thy  grave — wept  because  thy  great  soul  was  so 
heavily  fettered  ;  because  thy  boundless  love  of  humanity  met  so  cold  a 
reward ;  because  thou  didst  not  live  to  wear  the  laurel  crown  which  the 
world  was  weaving  for  thy  brow.  I  did  not  see  the  tombs  of  the  grand 
dukes  for  whom  this  chapel  was  built.  The  guide  pointed  them  out,  but 
I  did  not  raise  my  eyes;  I  had  seen  enough.  We  had  stood  by  the  noblest 
dust  in  Fatherland,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  look  at  that  of  princes  then." 

Bidding  farewell  to  Weimar  in  the  chill,  gray  morning  of  the  25th 
of  October,  1856,  "when  the  stars  were  in  the  sky."  she  says,  "  we  Uwked 
for  the  last  time  on  the  low  hills  that  spread  their  green  slopes  round  dear 
old  Weimar.  Its  youthful  beauty  has  passed  away,  its  songs  and  laugh- 
ter are  no  longer  heard,  but  I  have  found  no  place  in  all  my  goings  that 
I  like  so  well  and  was  so  loth  to  leave.  Home  of  the  gifted,  farewell !" 
They  went  at  once  from  Weimar  to  Frankfort-on-tho-Main.  wlu-re  they 
spent  two  days,  and  passed  from  it  to  Munich,  and  from  Munich  back  to 
Geneva,  having,  in  a  little  less  than  two  months,  seen  and  made  herself 
familiar  with  many  places  of  celebrity  and  many  of  the  noblest  works  of 

LXI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

ftrt  in  the  world.  Few  have  ever  done  so  much,  in  so  short  a  time,  and 
done  it  so  thoroughly  and  well.  Certain  it  is,  her  letters  display  a  large 
and  accurate  knpwledge  of  history  and  biography,  as  well  as  a  general 
and  broad  acquaintance  with  the  most  famous  monuments  of  art. 

She  and  her  daughter  remained  with  Mr.  Bolton  at  Geneva  until 
April  of  the  next  year,  when  they  returned  together  to  their  home  in 
Indianapolis.  Here  she  remained  about  two  months,  when  she  received  a 
letter  from  her  husband  informing  her  that  he  had  been  very  sick  for 
about  two  weeks.  He  did  not  ask  her  to  return,  but  from  the  tone  of  the 
letter  she  was  led  to  apprehend  that  his  sickness  was  very  grave,  and  had 
small  hope  of  seeing  him  again.  The  letter  came  July  10,  1857,  and  the 
next  morning,  while  the  city  of  Indianapolis  still  slept,  she  left  it,  alone, 
with  a  heavy  heart,  for  Geneva.  She  has  given  us  a  full  account  of  her 
voyage.  Her  heart  seemed  to  be  lifted  from  its  terrible  fears  before  she 
arrived  at  the  city  of  Calvin,  for  the  account  which  she  gives  of  her  trip 
from  Lyons  to  Geneva  is  most  cheerful  and  delightful.  "  I  drove  to  the 
depot,"  she  says,  "  three  miles  along  the  shore  of  the  blue  Rhone.  The 
sun  was  just  climbing  over  the  green  hills  and  lending  a  rich  tint  to 
the  old  gray  houses,  piled  one  above  another,  along  the  river  bluffs.  The 
leaves  whispered  to  each  other,  and  the  waves  sang  together  and  threw 
their  blue  arms  round  the  white  pebbles  as  we  passed.  I  had  been  in  Lyons 
before,  but  I  had  no  idea  that  it  was  so  beautiful.  Perhaps  I  colored  it  with 
the  hues  of  my  own  heart,  for  the  great  shadow  was  taken  from  my  spirit.  I 
was  near  the  end  of  my  journey;  I  had  accomplished  safely  what  few  women 
would  have  undertaken,  and  I  was  very  happy.  The  hackman  charged  me 
five  francs;  I  had  enjoyed  the  worth  of  a  hundred,  and  paid  him  freely. 
Once  more  in  the  cars  for  Geneva,  I  had  hoped  that  the  railroad  was  com- 
pleted from  Lyons  to  the  city  of  Calvin,  but  found  that  we  were  obliged 
to  go  some  thirty  miles  by  diligence.  *  *  At  six  o'clock  p.  m.  I  arrived 
at  Geneva,  and  was  very  glad  to  find  Mr.Bolton  able  to  walk  about  town." 
He  had  suffered  from  a  low  intermittent  fever,  and  although  it  had 
left  him,  he  was  yet  afflicted  with  neuralgia.  He  derived  little  or  no 
advantage  from  medicine,  and  was  finally  ordered  by  his  physician  to  go 
to  the  village  of  Mornex.  This  was  a  famous  resort  for  people  afflicted 
with  nervous  diseases,  and  Mrs.  Bolton  had  there  an  opportunity  to  study 
human  life  in  some  of  its  most  melancholy  phases ;  and  she  took  a  deep 

Lxn 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

interest  in  the  human  sufferings  and  sufferers  whom  she  met  there,  and 
has  given  us  some  pen  pictures  that  are  both  touching  and  beautiful.  One 
has  impressed  us  with  its  sad  beauty.  "A  little  corner  room  opening  on 
the  garden  was  occupied  by  two  young  girls  from  Finland — sisters — one 
of  whom  was  an  invalid,  condemned  to  spend  the  summer  at  Mornex  and 
drink  goats'  milk  daily.  She  was  a  slight  creature,  with  a  shadowy  face, 
rarely  lighted  witli  a  smile.  I  never  heard  her  history,  but4he  sadness  in 
her  blue  eyes  told  the  story  her  lips  never  uttered.  1  knew  that  the  dream 
of  her  young  life  was  thwarted,  that  her  best  hopes  had  withered  where 
they  grew.  Her  sister  laughed,  talked  and  tried  a  thousand  little  ways  to 
win  her  from  the  weariness  of  her  thoughts.  She  replied  now  and  then, 
in  a  few  low,  kind  words,  and  then  turned  again  to  that  inner  world  where 
she  saw  facees  that  others  could  not  see,  and  heard  voices  inaudible  to 
other  ears.  She  was  a  fiiir  blossom,  bruised  and  broken,  floating  quietly 
down  amidst  the  rude  surges  of  the  river  of  life."  Other  pictures  of  fair 
creatures  afflicted  with  disease  of  the  heart,  that  no  mountain  air  could 
cure  or  comfort,  attracted  her  attention  and  enlisted  her  sympathies;  but 
we  may  not  tarry  to  weep  with  those  whose  grief  has  long  since  ceased. 

Mr.  Bolton  gained  nothing  by  his  stay  a  Mornex.  His  fever  returned, 
and,  under  the  advice  of  another  medical  gentleman,  he  went  to  Montreu, 
for  a  change  of  air,  and  under  advice  to  drink  asses'  milk.  She  tells  with 
pleasure  that  in  their  little  journey  they  had  the  company  of  Bishop 
Simpson.  He  was  then  in  Europe  to  attend  the  Christian  Alliance  at 
Berlin.  "It  was  a  great  pleasure,'*  she  says,  ''  to  point  out  to  him  some 
of  the  most  interesting  localities  on  the  lake;  but  the  sight  of  his  familiar 
face  brought  back  my  old  yearning  for  the  home  land,  and  it  made  me 
sad  to  think  that  he  should  see  it  again  whilst  I  should  be  still  counting 
the  days  of  my  exile."  At  their  new  home  she  took  a  deep  interest  in 
everything,  and  has  given  us  a  pleasing  account  of  it,  but  it  is  not  import- 
ant to  our  present  purpose.  She  has  also  given  a  particular  history  of  all 
efforts  made  to  restore  Mr.  Bolton's  health,  but,  though  benefited,  he  was 
not  cured.  He  languished  a  long  time,  but,  with  her  faithful  nursing,  so 
far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  come  home,  which  he  did  in  1858.  But  he 
arrived  there  "showing  evident  marks  of  disease  and  debility,  and  he 
rarely  left  his  room  and  seemed  impressed  with  the  belief  that  he  should 
never  recover,  which  amounted  sometimes  almost  to  hypochondria,  and 
doubtless  gave  additional  strength  to  the  nervous  prostration  that  finally 

Lxin 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

caused  his  death."  It  was  said  of  him  at  the  time  that  "he  was  no  drone 
and  no  wasp.  He  neither  shirked  his  own  duties  nor  annoyed  those  who 
did  not.  His  life,  if  it  was  illustrated  by  no  great  triumph  or  splendid 
acquisition,  has  left  his  family,  worthy  of  such  a  head,  a  pure  name  and 
the  memory  of  duty  faithfully  done." 

The  dea^h  of  Mr.  Bolton  was  a  severe  blow  to  his  wife ;  but  while  it 
greatly  afflicted  her,  her  duty  to  her  children  and  her  own  superior  sense 
enabled  her  to  bear  bravely  up  against  its  crushing  influence.  She  grieved 
long  and  deeply;  but  she  was  a  christian  and  did  not  mourn  as  those  who 
have  no  hope.  The  agony  of  her  heart  found  vent  in  sung  and  poured 
itself  out  in  some  of  the  saddest  and  sweetest  strains  that  have  ever  con- 
secrated human  woe.  But  the  war  came,  and  the  general  bereavement 
and  common  grief  of  the  people,  so  strongly  appealed  to  her  sympathies, 
that  she  found  her  own  sorrows  lessened  by  constantly  trying  to  lessen 
those  of  others.  Patriotism  also  enlisted  her  soul,  and  her  country's  suffer- 
ings and  dangers  called  all  her  powers  into  vigorous  activity.  Love  of 
country  has  always  been  to  her  a  source  of  inspiration;  and  no  poem  of 
the  war  did  more  to  rally  and  inspire  the  friends  of  the  Union  than  her 
"Union  Forever!"  written  in  March,  1861.  It  was,  indeed,  a  battle  for 
the  Union.  Her  mind  and  heart  were  active  throughout  the  mighty  con- 
flict, and  wher  ever  word  or  work  could  help  the  cause  of  her  country, 
she  was  ready  to  speak  and  to  do.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  common  suf- 
fering, she  was  called  to  undergo  another  great  sorrow.  This  was  the 
death  of  her  only  and  most  dearly  beloved  daughter,  Sarah  Ada,  who  had 
gone  hand  and  hand  with  her,  in  their  travels  through  Europe;  and 
whose  high  culture,  noble  nature  and  great  character  made  her  her  mother's 
pride  and  hope.  She  had  married  Francis  Smith,  Esq.,  and  became  the 
mother  of  a  son,  when  she  was  stricken  with  fatal  disease,  and  died  in 
November,  1863.  Her  strong  character  and  filial  love  is  evinced  by  the 
fact  that  she  wrote  from  her  dying  bed,  and  after  all  hope  was  over,  to  a 
friend,  thanking  him  for  his  kindness  to  her  mother,  and  saying;  "I 
once  thought  to  collect  her  writings  myself;  but  I  will  never  do  it  now. 
But  you  will  pee  to  having  it  done."  The  two  poems — "My  Darling,'' 
and  "To  'Our  Tetie'  "—printed  without  date,  in  the  collection  of  her  works 
by  Carlton,  of  New  York,  seemed  to  say  that  all  diUes  were  blotted  for- 
ever fVom  the  mother's  heart,  by  the  deluge  of  an  everlasting  sorrow.    But 

LXIV 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

duty  reclaimed  her  life  from  the  ruin  of  despair.  Iler  dead  daughter's 
little  child  was  left  to  her.  He  must  be  cared  for,  reared,  educated  and 
made  worthy  of  his  mother.  He  it  was  that  made  life  possible  for  yet  a 
little  longer,  and  ner  divine  religion  hung  out  for  her  a  star  amidst  the 
gloom  of  the  grave;  her  heart  saw  it,  making  bright  her  way  even  to  the 
gates  of  the  city  of  God,  and  she  sung : 

"And  there,  where  the  ransomed  dwell, 

And  the  weary  find  repose, 
I  shall  meet  the  darling  I  loved  so  well, 
With  a  love  that  tongue  can  never  tell, — 

That  only  a  mother  knows. 

"And  though  my  feet  are  slow 

To  follow  the  path  she  trod, 
While  I  linger  along  these  vales  below, 
In  the  core  of  my  heart  of  hearts  I  know 

That  Tetie  has  gone  to  God." 

It  was  thus  that  grief  was  controlled  by  duty,  and  became  at  last 
even  beautiful  to  her,  in  the  light  of  an  immortal  hope. 

Under  the  advice  of  a  friend,  she  lost  a  large  sum  of  money  near  the 
close  of  the  war  by  bad  investments.  Still  she  had  enough  left  to  secure 
her  against  fear  of  want,  but  much  of  that  balance  has  been  endangered, 
if  not  sunk,  by  generously  releasing  a  security  to  assist  her  debtors.  Still 
she  has  a  good  home  and  plenty  to  make  it  comfortable  and  happy.  After 
she  left  her  place  between  Tennessee  street  and  Kentucky  avenue,  she 
lived  awhile  on  or  near  the  corner  of  Mississippi  and  Washington  streets. 
Then,  breaking  up  housekeeping  for  a  time,  she  boarded.  She  finally 
bought  and  moved  into  "Elm  Croft,'  which,  liko  the  cottage  in  the  city, 
soon  became  the  haunt  of  the  muses,  and  a  place  of  pleasant  resort  to 
people  of  literary  tastes  and  culture.  It  was  a  large  frame  house  situated 
in  the  midst  of  a  lot  of  two  acres  or  more,  and  nearly  surrounded  with 
beautiful  forest  trees.  It  was  a  home  every  w:iy  lit  f.r  ;i  i....t.--.  but  it 
was  too  near  the  city,  which  was  reaching  out  on  tvery  siUo  tu  enlarge  its 
borders.  Her  home,  that  was  not  only  suburban  but  rural  when  she 
founded  it,  was  soon  in  the  midst  of  the  habitations  of  the  burghers  and 

LXV  ^^ 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

disturbed  by  the  dust  and  noise  of  the  multitude.  It  was  no  longer  the 
home  that  she  desired.  She  sought  quiet  in  the  country,  and  bought 
"  Beech-Bank,"  her  present  residence,  five  miles  in  a  southeasterly  direc- 
tion from  the  city,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  its  most  ambitious  hope  of 
extension.  Here  she  settled  in  the  spring  of  1871 ;  and  here,  in  a  neat 
cottage,  surrounded  by  pleasant  shade,  in  the  perpetual  peace  and  quiet  of 
the  country,  she  still  lives,  in  the  enjoyment  of  golden  days,  made  con- 
stantly glorious  by  high  poetic  thoughts,  generous  affections,  and  sym- 
pathies and  hopes  that  run  forever  forward,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  to  meet  and  embrace  "the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 
that  shall  be." 

Soon  after  she  settled  in  this  home,  she  went  with  her  grandson, 
Bolton  Smith,  then  a  boy  between  eight  and  nine  years  of  age,  to  Europe, 
that  she  might  secure  to  him  an  education  in  some  of  the  schools  of  Ger- 
many. To  this  end  she  resided  for  the  time  being  in  the  city  of  Dres- 
den, and,  placing  him  in  one  of  its  schools,  remained  with  him  for  nearly 
two  years.  She  had  no  other  employment  for  hand  or  brain  but  to  take 
care  of,  assist  and  encourage  the  boy.  She  thought  of  the  days  that 
she  and  his  mother  had  passed  together  there  fifteen  years  before,  and 
recalled  the  dreams  that  she  dreamed  and  the  hopes  that  she  cherished 
when  that  bright  young  creature  stood  by  her  side.  Now,  another  young 
life  was  committed  to  her,  that  she  might  fit  him  with  the  crown  of  prepa- 
ration to  fight  and  win  the  battle  of  life,  whose  grim  front,  already  formed, 
her  motherly  eye  saw  prepared  to  receive  him.  *  Right  \v(H  aiui  trvily 
did  she  bear  the  burden  of  her  duty.  But  it  was  not  cn.-imh  lo  < mploy 
her  powers.  Tinio  she  had  enough  and  to  spare,  and  she  liud  al way- 
held  it  a  crime  to  kill  time  in  idleness  or  frivolity.  Her  spare  \u<uv> 
must  be  occupied.  The  Ariel  of  genius  must  do  His  errands  whose  tire- 
less minister  it  is.  She  wrote  many  beautiful  letters  to  her  friends  in 
the  beloved  home-land  across  the  sea.  Then  she  sung  the  songs  that  were 
ever  ringing  in  her  heart  and  brain.  But  still  the  laggard  hours  were  all 
too  slow  to  keep  pace  with  her  winged  spirit.  The  letters  were  written 
and  the  songs  were  sung,  and  there  were  still  vacant  hours  that  nuist  be 
filled  up  with  some  work  of  use  or  beauty— better  if  it  may  be  of  both. 
And  so,  no  doubt,  .-»h(;  thou<;ht  when  she  elected  for  her  employment  a 
labor  as  novel  as  it  ua-  j.  m  tieal  and  beautiful.     She  set  about  paintiDg 

LXVI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Meissen  China,  and  writing  original  poems  upon  it  in  her  own  clear  and 
elegant  handwriting,  and  the  visitor  at  "  Beech  Bank,"  who  sits  down  at 
her  hospitable  board,  will  read  upon  every  piece  of  table-ware  some  good 
and  inspired  thought  turned  into  elegant  verses  by  her  own  brain.  The 
dear  children  and  grandchildren  are  all  remembered,  and  her  love  for 
each  is  recorded  upon  tablets  as  enduring  as  and  far  more  beautiful  than 
the  cuneiform  records  of  ancient  Nineveh  or  Babylon,  Many  of  these 
little  poems  are  worthy  of  a  place  in  this  book,  but  it  is  crowded  full 
already,  and  we  only  give  a  few  specimens  as  samples  of  all.  Thus  she 
writes  of  Table-Talk : 

"  Heaven  bless  the  maiden  fair, 

Who  with  skillful,  kindly  labor, 
Fills  this  plate  with  dainties  rare 

To  feast  a  worthy  neighbor. 

'•  May  their  table-talk  portray 

Appetising  facts  and  fancies — 
Follies,  fashions  light  and  gay, 

V 

Seasoned  with  romances. 

"  May  they  never  blight  nor  blame 

Absent  people,  rashly,  blindly, 
Never  judge  their  faults  nor  fame, 

Wrongly,  nor  unkindly. 

"  Table-talk  should  never  jar- 
Never  moot  a  serious  question: 

Pleasant  chat  is  better  far, 
For  temper  and  digestion.  " 

From  another  plate,  as  our  chance  may  be,  "The  Voice  of  Memory" 
whispers : 

"When  Memory's  solemn  undertone 

Is  heard,  in  passion's  pauses, 
Scanning  minutely  one  by  one, 
Our  actions  and  their  causes, 
Our  reason  fails  to  comprehend, 

LXVII 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

How  such  a  small  beginning 
Should  warp  our  senses  and  extend 
To  wrath  and  willful  sinning. 

"  And  when  her  faithful  voice  repeats 

Harsh  words  that  we  have  spoken, 
To  one  whose  heart  has  ceased  to  beat, — 

Whose  golden  bowl  is  broken, — 
Too  late  repentant  tears  may  fall ; 

Too  late,  the  soul  endeavor 
To  blot  them  out  beyond  recall : 

They  are  for  aye, — forever." 

The  folly  of  borrowing  trouble  is  thus  handsomely  rebuked  by  the 
cheerful  face  of  another  beautiful  plate  : 

"  The  trouble  we  borrow  hurts  us  most, 
As  moonshine  maketh  an  oaken  post. 
Resemble  a  ghastly  ghoul  or  ghost. 

"The  path  of  life  is  rugged  and  rough 
In  its  devious  course  o'er  brier  and  bluff, 
And  its  every  day  hath  pain  enough. 

"  Yet  we  look  for  something  we  fear  to  see 
And  dare  not  face,  and  can  not  flee, 
Awaiting  us  in  the  realm  To  Be; 

"And  poison  the  hours  that  might  be  sweet. 
By  listening  to  hear  the  coming  feet 
Of  the  ghoul  or  ghost  we  never  meet." 

These  lessons  set  before  the  guests,  with  their  victuals,  are  many,  and 
suggestive.  But  we  may  quote  no  more;  and  will  end  with  those  which 
she  endeavors  to  impress  upon  her  grandchildren.  To  Bolton  Smith  she 
dedicates  a  plate  in  these  lines : 

"Value  lime,  each  setting  sun 
Numbers  one  day  lost  or  won, — 
Twice  twelve  hours  that  scaled  away 
Lxvni 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

Their  accounts  till  judgment  day 

Nor  Saint  nor  Sibyl  can  recall 

One  single  moment  of  them  all. 

Patient  labor  sows  the  seed 

Of  excellence  in  word  and  deed. 

Honor  be  to  him  that  delves — 

'  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves.' " 

Another  plate  bears  these  words,  surrounded  by  culsters  of  grapes 

"Ada  Bolton. 
May  no  blessing  be  denied  thee,   ' 

Loving  little  one, — 
jVIay  good  angels  walk  beside  thee 

Till  thy  work  is  done. 
Tender  hearts  are  prone  to  sorrow, — 

Fine  gold  has  alloy, — 
But,  the  comfort  faith  may  borrow, 

Nothing  can  destroy.  \ 

May  thy  heart  retain  its  lightness, 

As  the  years  go  o'er. 
And  thy  spottless  soul  its  whiteness 

Ever — evermore." 

In  another  plate,  over  a  wreath  of  flowers,  are  these  words: 
"Helena  Bolton. 
"Helena,  will  thy  soul  of  fire, 
To  the  Good  and  True  aspire  ? 
In  the  temple  of  Kenown, 
"Wilt  thou  wear  a  poet's  crown  ? 
With  the  gain,  there  shall  be  loss ; 
"With  the  crown,  a  heavy  cross.'' 

In  another  plate,  enclosed  within  a  beautiful  wreath  of  fruit,  we 

read : 

"  Grace  Bolton. 

"  When  thy  womanhood  shall  see 
What  my  pen  has  traced  for  thee, 
LXIX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

I  perchance  shall  be  asleep, 
Where  they  neither  write  nor  weep: 
But,  if  near  the  glorious  throne 
Of  the  high  and  Holy  One, 
Through  His  grace  my  soul  shall  be, 
Darling,  I  will  pray  for  thee." 

On  still  another,  in  the  midst  of  rose-buds  and  butterflies,  stands  this 
memorial : 

"In  Memoriam: — Ralph  Bolton. 

"  No  sorrows  vex  his  heart  or  head. 

No  bitter  tears  bedim  his  eyes, — 
His  little  dimpled  hands  instead 
Of  daily  toiling  for  daily  bread 

Gather  the  fruits  of  Paradise." 

Upon  a  beautiful  plate  above  white  rose-buds,  violets  and  flowers  is 

written  •. 

"Blanch  Bolton. 

Blanch  came  and  looked  at  life  one  summer  day, 
Found  it  loo  cold  and  dark,  and  went  away." 

Our  selections  have  been  made  from  these  beautiful  dishes,  of  which 
there  are  nearly  a  hundred  pieces,  not  because  they  are  the  best,  but  as 
illustrations  of  the  design  that  is  impressed  upon  the  whole  work.  We 
regard  the  whole  as  well  worthy  of  commemoration.  It  illustrates  the 
taste,  genius,  affections  and  character  of  Mrs.  Bolton.  At  the  time  she 
undertook  this  labor  few,  if  any,  of  our  American  women  had  ever  done 
a  thing  so  noteworthy,  and  none,  perhaps,  when  simply  to  be  doing  some- 
thing was  the  chief  incentive  to  the  work. 

Mrs.  Bolton  remained  in  Europe  until  1873,  when  she  returned  to  her 
home  in  America,  leaving  her  grandson  at  Dresden.  He  had  acquired 
enough  German  to  be  able  to  talk  with  his  companions,  and  make  his 
wants  understood,  and  so  could  get  along  without  her  assistance.  She 
staid  at  home  only  a  little  more  than  a  year,  and  then  went  back  to  see 
how  he  was  getting  along.  He  had  been  removed  from  the  school  in 
Dresden  to  one  in  Geneva,  and  thither  she  hastened,  not  stopping,  even 
for  an  hour  in  Paris  or  elsewhere,  on  the  way.    Finding  her  grandson 

LXX 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

well,  and  making  satisfactory  progress  in  his  studies,  she  gave  her  atten- 
tion to  acquiring  more  accurate  knowledge  of  the  climate,  health  and 
material  and  social  condition  of  Switzerland.  She  looked  more  deeply 
into  these  subjects  than,  as  a  mere  sight-seer,  she  had  before  cared  to  do; 
and  was  led  to  the  conclusion  that  Switzerland  has  nothing  to  brag  of 
over  Indiana  in  any  of  these  respects.  She  finds  much  to  condemn  and 
not  much  good  enough  for  unstinted  praise.  She  speaks  of  the  climate 
thus  :  "  We  at  home  are  always  grumbling  about  our  climate,  its  sudden 
changes,  its  frightful  cold,  its  intense  heat,  but,  with  some  knowledge  of 
the  subject,  it  is  my  opinion  that  our  climate — I  mean  that  of  Indiana- 
polis— is  better  than  that  of  France,  Germany,  Italy  or  Switzerland — 
better  for  soul  and  body.  For  no  one  who  has  not  experienced  it  can 
have  an  idea  what  it  is  to  live  for  two  months  without  sunshine,  not  an 
uncommon  occurrence  in  some  of  these  lands."  She  looks  closely  into 
their  schools  and  studies  their  modes  of  teaching,  to  be  led  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  ours  are  better.  She  says,  "at  this  time  Geneva  probably  takes 
the  lead  of  any  city  in  Europe  as  an  educational  place.  It  is  filled  with 
English,  American,  French,  Spanish,  Russian,  Tartar  and  Turkish  chil- 
dren. And  why  ?  Not  because  of  any  extraordinary  excellence  in  the 
method  of  teaching,  but  because  it  happens  to  be  the  fashion.  It  has 
been  my  privilege  to  get  behind  the  scenes  frequently  in  the  last  few 
months,  and  I  can  see  nothing  in  the  manner  of  teaching  or  the  amount 
learned  in  the  Geneva  schools  which  could  give  them  preeminence  over 
our  schools  in  the  United  States,  except  the  greater  facility  they  afford  for 
acquiring  the  French  language.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  it  would  take 
an  American  child  ten  years  to  learn  in  these  schools  what  he  could  learn 
in  our  schools  m  five.  Not  from  any  fault  of  the  educators,  who  are  all 
savans,  men  of  profound  learning,  but  from  the  difficulties  he  must  meet 
in  acquiring  mathematics,  geography,  or  any  other  science,  through  the 
medium  of  a  foreign  language."  She  feels  her  patriotism  touched  to  the 
quick  by  the  notions  foreigners  have  formed  of  the  schools  and  teachers, 
of  America,  and  adds;  "Seeing  the  sacrifices  parents  make  to  educate 
their  children  here,  Europeans  have  got  the  opinion  that  there  are  no 
schools  of  any  account  in  the  United  States.  The  principal  of  a  large 
school  in  Dresden  said  to  me,  when  I  was  speaking  of  our  schools  at 
home:  'You  have  no  schools;  you  have  school-houses,  but  no  teachers 
except  those  we  send  you.'     This  provoked  me  to  say  something  rather 

LXXI 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

sharp,  and  this  well-informed  (?)  educator  closed  the  subject  by  adding: 
'If  you  have  schools,  why  do  you  bring  your  children  here  to  be  educated  ?* 
This  man  did  not  mean  to  be  impertinent  or  offensive;  he  only  expressed 
a  wide-spread  opinion,  and  expected,  no  doubt,  that  I  would  confirm  it; 
for  it  is  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  Americans  in  Europe  to  disparage 
their  own  country.  They  think  it  argues  a  high  degree  of  cultivation 
and  great  superiority  to  seem  enraptured  with  everything  they  see  here 
and  disgusted  with  everything  they  left  at  home,  to  make  a  proper  dis- 
crimination between  the  elegant  refinements  of  the  Old- World  aristocracy 
and  vulgar  simplicity  of  American  republicanism.  But  where  there  is 
one  person  who  thinks  this,  there  are  a  hundred  who  would  stand  up  for 
the  land  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  as  the  fairest  and  freest,  the  grandest 
and  best  land  under  the  whole  heavens — inhabited  by  the  truest  women 
and  bravest  men,  protected  by  the  strongest  bulwarks,  and  governed  by 
the  wisest  laws  the  world  ever  knew.** 

She  returned  to  her  home  in  1875,  with  her  patriotic  feelings  and 
principles  intensified,  and  has  little  desire  any  more  to  visit  foreign  lands, 
being  pleased  and  satisfied  with  her  own  country,  which  she  regards  as 
the  most  desirable  on  the  face  of  the  whole  earth.  She  is  cheerful  and 
happy  at  home,  and  enters  with  heart  and  soul  into  all  the  delights  of 
social  intercourse  with  her  many  friends  in  the  city  and  country.  She 
may,  indeed,  feel  at  times,  and  even  say  that, 

"There  is  no  friend  "like  the  old  friend, 

That  shared  our  morning  days ; 
No  greeting  like  his  welcome, 

No  homage  like  his  praise," 

but  her  heart  is  still  young  and  her  mind  still  capable  of  comprehending 
and  sharing  the  thoughts,  affections  and  aspirations  of  the  young.  Years 
have  not  quenched  the  enthusiasm  with  which  she  has  pursued  her  chosen 
purposes,  from  the  moment  when  the  first  picture  was  graven  in  her 
memory,  at  the  closed  door  of  her  first  home  in  Newport,  Kentucky;  and 
we  are  quite  certain  that  her  spirit  adjusts  itself  as  easily  and  lithely  to-day 
to  the  ever  changing  circumstances  of  life,  as  it  did  that  morning  when, 
with  eyes  still  wet  with  farewell  tears,  she  stopped  to  dance  to  the  merry 
martial  music.    Her  life  has  never  been  confined  to  any  single  aim  long 

LXXII 


THE  LIFE  OF  SARAH  T.  BOLTON. 

enough  to  lose  its  power  to  pursue  another  when  the  first  was  attained  or 
lost.  This  has  made  it  a  continual  course  of  education.  Every  day  has 
set  some  new  lesson  before  her,  and  she  has  brought  to  its  learning  the 
same  fresh  earnestness  of  purpose  that  inspired  her  girlhood's  studies ; 
and  so  it  will  be  with  her  until  the  curtain  shall  fall  upon  this  mortal  scene 
and  she  shall  rise  to  that  grander  stage  of  being  and  action  where  "  that 
which  is  in  part  shall  be  done  away,"  and  "  we  shall  know  even  as  we  are 
known." 

Entirely  conscious  that  this  sketch  of  Mrs.  Bolton's  life  only  exhibits 
the  bright  headlands  of  a  noble  and  brilliant  career,  we  shall  not  stop 
here,  at  its  close,  to  attempt  a  delineation  of  the  characteristics  of  mind 
and  heart  which  have  given  her  pre-eminence,  both  as  a  woman  and  an 
author,  among  those  in  the  West  who  have  enjoyed  equal  or  better  oppor- 
tunities. If  our  facts  have  been  well  chosen  and  fitly  adjusted  to  eaeh 
other,  our  readers  will  be  able  better  to  do  it  for  themselves.  To  them, 
in  confidence  that  it  will  be  well  and  justly  done,  we  commit  the  duty  of 
placing  a  right  estimate  upon  her  life  and  labors — her  career  and  character. 

We  shall  close  with  what  one  wlio  has  passed  from  the  earth,  said  of 
our  subject  long  ago,  feeling  that  it  is  both  true  and  just:  "Her  person,' 
said  Kobert  Dale  Owen,  "is  small  but  well  proportioned,  and  beautifully 
moulded.  With  a  finely  formed  head,  and  ample  intellectual  forehead, 
her  countenance,  without  boasting  regularity  of  feature,  is  of  a  highly 
pleasing  expression,  especially  when  lighted,  as  in  conversation  it  usually 
is,  by  the  bright  and  cheerful  spirit  within.  Her  manners  are  frank, 
lively  and  winning,  with  little  of  conventional  form,  and  much  of  genuine 
propriety  about  them.  The  charge  sometimes  brought  against  literary 
ladies,  to-wit:  lack  of  due  regard  to  dress  and  personal  appearance,  finds 
refutation  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Bolton.  Alike  when  taken  unawares  by  a 
morning  visit,  or  in  the  evening  circle,  her  toilet,  simple  and  unostatious, 
yet  evinces  that  gracious  and  sedulous  care  of  the  person  and  its  outward' 
adornings,  which  has  ever  seemed  to  me,  in  women  especially,  more  or 
less  allied  to  self-respect  and  purity  of  mind. " 
Indianapolis,  July  4,  1880. 


jfK    END  OF  THE  LIFE. 


LXXIII 


Alfred  Fbedbricks,  A. 

'*  INS  PI  R  A  TION, 


bi 


►:|-P1^EF^T0^Y.-I^^ 


-»o»<c 


^¥S 


HILDREN  of  m}-  heart  and  brain, 
Bom  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 
Some  with  aspect  fair  and  bright 
As  the  sweet  May-moniing  light. 
Some  as  sombre,  sad  and  sober 
As  the  yellow-haired  October, 
Some  with  step  as  light  and  air\" 
As  the  tread  of  fa}'  or  fairy — 
Hoping,  fearing,  smiling,  sighing. 
Musing,  singing,  laughing,  crying. 

Go  your  w  ay  ; 
Henceforth  on  yourselves  relying, 

Come  what  may. 


Where  the  fairest  flowers  are  bom 
In  the  rosy  light  of  mom  ; 
Where  the  shado\^•s  sleep  at  noon 
In  the  lap  of  genial  June  ; 


PREFATORY. 

Where  the  frolic  cascade  falls, 
Down  the  mountain's  rugged  walls, 
Startling  with  its  gleeful  laughter 
All  the  sweet  winds  singing  after, 
Through  the  shadow  and  the  gleaming, 
We  have  wandered,  fondly  dreaming. 

Go  your  way ; 
Those  bright  hours  are  dead  in  seeming ; 

Well-a-day ! 

Little,  simple  things  are  ye. 
Nevertheless,  ye  were  to  me 
Messengers  from  heaven  above. 
Teaching  patience,  peace  and  love  ; 
Making  every  burden  lighter. 
Every  pathway  fairer,  brighter  ; 
Bathing  all  the  past  with  tender. 
Soft,  uncertain,  shadowy  splendor. 
Spanning  common  life's  expanses 
With  bewitching  dreams  and  fancies. 

Go  your  way ; 
Ye  were  bom  of  glorious  trances, 

Come  what  may. 

Go  ;  the  stream  of  Time  is  wide  ; 
Take  your  chances  on  Its  tide ; 
Some  to  buffet  winds  and  waves. 
Some  to  sink  to  Lethean  graves, 
Some  to  live,  piix  liance,  and  cheer 
A  despairing  voyager, 

4 


PREFATORY. 

Sow  a  seed  of  truth  and  beauty, 

Stir  a  sluggish  pulse  to  duty, 

Give  some  poor  heart,  sick  with  sorrow, 

Promise  of  a  brighter  morrow. 

Go  your  way ; 
Such  a  dream  my  hope  would  borrow, 

Come  what  may. 


^ifllE 


eiiij^E.sM- 


'tm^ 


I, 

T  was  night,  with  storm  and  darkness,  and 
a  few  stars  dimly  shining 
'Midst  the  sable  clouds  that  drifted,  all 
a- wrack  along  the  sk}^, 
And   the  wind   from   out   the   North-land 
came  like  wan-ing  hosts  combining, 
To  besiege  an  ancient  city,  with  defiant 
battle-cry. 


From  the  watch-tower  and  the  ramparts  it 
went  shrieking  down  the  river ; 
Shrieking   'round   the   hoary  mountain, 
and  across  the  dreary  wold, 
Where  the  larches  and  the  lindens  clasped 
their  bare  arms,  with  a  shiver, 
And  moaned  like  living  creatures,  suf- 
fering with  piercing  cold. 
7 


f 

LEOLINE. 

On  that  night,  a  certain  shining,  as  of  golden  banners 
traihng 
From  the  windows  of  a  palace,  fell  along  the  the  mid- 
night air ; 
And  the  listener  heard,  at  intervals,  above  the  tempest's 
wailing, 
A  murmurous  sound  of  Voices,  music,  mirth  and  revel 
there. 


Bright  within  the  red  light  trembled  over  peerless  forms 
and  faces — 
Merry  feet  kept  time  to  harmony  on  woof  of  Turkish 
loom  ; 
Fairest  tropic  flowers  breathed  sweetness  from  the  lips  of 
costly  vases. 
Until  all  the  air  was  eloquent  with  music  and  perfume. 

Thefe  were  tresses  bound  with  diamonds,  cheeks  aglow 
with  joyous  feeling ; 
Softly  whispered  words,  whose  witchery  wrought  love's 
delicious  spell ;  > 

Jewelled   fingers   clasping    tenderly,    and    glorious    eyes 
revealing 
The  impassioned  thoughts  that  maiden  lips  would  never 
dare  to  tell. 


Sweetest  song  and  silver-chorded  sound  of  harp  and  viol 

blending, 

Interweaving  with  soft  cadences  all  tenderest  words  of 

love, 

8 


LEOLINE. 

As  if  hitherward  the  angel  Israfel,  from  heaven  descend- 
ing, 
Came  to  charm  the  soul  with  melody  to  brighter  worlds 
above. 


There  were  fine,  old,  famous  pictures,  shrined  in  antique 
frames,  carved  quaintly ; 
Psyche  in  her  wondrous  beauty,  Niobe  in  her  despair ; 
The  dear  Child-God,  and  His  mother,  with  her  brow  so 
pure  and  saintly. 
All  illumined  with  the  holiness  that  made  a  halo  there. 


And  statues,  marvelous  statues,  modelled  from  the  soul's 
ideal. 
With  the  longing  love  of  genius  for  the  beauty  not  of 
earth. 
In  their  purple-shadowed  niches,  grew  so  life-like  and  so 
real, 
That,  in  gazing  on  them,  one  forgot  they  had  not  mortal 
birth. 

In  gay  mazes  went  the  dancers — softly  sounded  harp  and 

viol ; 
Timid  Love  won  sweet  responses — crimson  vnne  flowed 

sparkling  bright ; 
Until  Pleasure,  never  measuring  time  by  tell-tale  clock  or 

dial. 
Had  stolen  away  the  lightsome  hours  of  that  long  win- 
ter night. 


LEOLINE. 


//. 


But  the  shadow  of  that  palace  fell  athwart  a  lowly  dwell- 
ing; 
The  red  shimmer  from  its  windows  nearly  kissed  a  cold 

hearthstone, 
And  the  voices  of  its  revelr}^,  voluptuously  swelling, 
Went  out  amidst  the  darkness,  blended  with  a  sad  heart's 
moan. 


In  that  lonely,  dreary  attic,  where  a  feeble  light  was  burn- 
ing, 
And  the  wintr}^  wind  went  in  and  out  with  sobbing 
wierd  and  wild. 
Sat  a  pale,  despairing  woman,  with  a  mother's  fond  heart 
yearning, 
Softly  singing  a  low  lullaby  to  soothe  her  dying  child. 

As  the  failing  embers  faded,  and  the  lonely  room  grew 
drearer. 
She  arranged  the  tattered  mantle  closer  'round  the  little 
form, 
And  wailed  so  low  and  piteous  !     There  was  none  but  God 
to  hear  her — 
And  her  wail  was  only  answered  by  the  wailing  of  the 
storm. 

Then  she  closed  her  wild  eyes  meekly,  and  her  lips  moved 
as  in  praying ; 

lO 


LEOLINE. 

She,  perchance,  besought  Our  Father  to  withhold  his 
chastening  rod ; 
But  the  chill  air  caught  no  whisper  as  the  low  words  she 
was  saying 
Went  winging  from  her  pallid  lips  to  the  white  throne  of 
God. 


Then  she  kissed  that  baby  brow  again,  and  parted,  with 
cold  fingers, 
The  entangled,  death-damp  tresses  of  its  silken,  golden 
hair ; 
And  gazed  in  its  sweet,  shadowy  eyes  with  all  the  love 
that  lingers, 
Lives  and  suffers  in  a  mother's  heart  when  hope  has 
perished  there. 

Still  the  dying  embers  faded,  still  the  winds  without  kept 
wailing, 
And  the  weaiy  human  heart  within  throbbed  w  ilclly  as 
before  ; 
And  the  red  light  from  the  palace,  where  the  revel  was, 
kept  trailing. 
Like  the  bright  wing  of  an  angel,  on  the  carpedess  tile 
floor. 

And  she  still  sung  that  low  lullaby,  love's  holiest  words 
repeating, 
Even  wiien  the  lingering  rose-tint  from  its  baby  lip  had 

flown  ; 

II 


LEOLINE. 

And  she  never  ceased  her  singing  when  the  little  heart 
stopped  beating, 
Only  kissed  the  icy  forehead  and  kept  singing  on  alone. 

But  the  murmurous  sound  of  revel  died  away  before  the 
morning ; 
And  the  shimmer  from  the  windows  faded  when  the  sky 
grew  red ; 
But  alone,  in  that  drear  attic,  by  the  night-lamp  dimly 
burning, 
That  desolate-hearted  mother  still  sat  singing  by  her 
dead. 

Who  was  she — that  friendless  woman,  in  the  wintry  dawn- 
ing weeping? 
In  the  shadow  of  a  palace,  perishing  of  want  and  cold ; 
In  the  great  heart  of  a  city,  all  alone  love's  vigil  keeping. 
With  the  dead  child  on  her  bosom  ?     Was  her  story  ever 
told? 


She  was  bom  and  bred  a  lady.    Menial  hands  obeyed  her 
bidding, 
In  her  fine  old  home  ancestral,  grand  from  nature,  fair 
from  art : 
There   her  will  was  never  thwarted,  her  caprices  never 
chidden  ; 
For  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  her  father^s  **  house 
and  heart." 

12 


LEOLINE. 

She  had  suitors   of  distinction,  men  of  genius,  men  of 
learning ; 
Some  adored  her  peerless  beauty,  others  loved  her  gold 
and  land, 
And  a  few,  through  all  her  waywardness,  with  critical 
discerning. 
Saw  a  w^oman's  full-orbed  mind  and  heart,  and  there- 
for, sought  her  hand. 

And  they  followed  her  with  praises,  but  she  listened  to 
them  coldly ; 
Thanked  them  for  their  gentle   courtesy,  or  silenced 
them  with  scorn ; 
**One,"  she  said,  *' wooed  far  too  tenderly — another  far 
too  boldly  : 
One  was  wedded  to  his  sciences,  and  one  was  lowly 
born." 

But  she  thanked  them  for  their  preference  with  a  charming 
grace  and  seeming ; 
Declared  that  never  a  thought  of  love  her  heart  had 
stilled  or  stirred ; 
And  beneath  the  lofty  lindens  still  went  singing,  still  went 
dreaming. 
With  unfettered  fancy  soaring  like  the  free  wing  of  a 
bird. 

Oh,  that  careless,  happy  maiden,  coming  from  the  path  of 
childhood, 

13 


LEOLINE. 

With  her  feet  all  wet  with  dew-drops,  and  her  heart  all 

rich  and  rife 
With  the  sunshine  of  the  spnng  time,  with  the  odors  of 

the  wildwood. 
The  sweet  dreams  she  went  dreaming  are  the  poetry  of 

life. 


J.  D.  SMaLii. 


/F. 


It  befell,  a  poor,  pale  artist  wandered  out,  in  summer 
weather. 
From  the  hot  haunts  of  the  city  to  the  breezes  of  the 
hills; 

H 


LEOLINE. 

And  they  met,  one  pleasant   afternoon,  conversed   and 
walkec*  together, 
Till  the  sunset,  with  soft  crimson,  flooded  all  the  vales 
and  rills. 


She  was  fain,  at  first,  to  shun  him.     He  craved  pardon — 
"  I  am  seeking,'' 
He  said  courteously,  ''  a  charming  view  to  copy  in  my 
book." 
There  was  such  mute,  earnest  pleading,  such  low  music 
in  his  speaking. 
Such  deferential  meaning  in  his  manner  and  his  look, 

That  she  could  not  choose  but  guide  him  to  the  moss-seat 
by  the  fountains. 
Where  the  south  winds,  through  the  osiers,  kissed  the 
lily's  odorous  bloom. 
In  a  little,  quiet  valley,  all  asleep  betwixt  two  mountains, 
Where  pale  sunshine  fleckt  the  waters,  and  abeles  dropt 
purple  gloom. 

So  they  wandered  on  together,  listening  to  the  wild  bird's 
singing ; 
Plucking,  now  and  then,  a  violet,  that  nesded  at  their 
feet; 
While  the  young  oak  leaves  above  made  them  a  murmur 
of  low  ringing, 
And  their  words  became  unconsciously  as  musical  and 
sweet. 

15 


LEOLINE. 

He  discoursed  of  all  things  beautiful — things  seen  by  poets 
only— 
For  the  poet  and  the  painter  are  akin  in  mind  and 
heart ; 
And  he  told  her  he  was  homeless,  that  his  life  was  very 
lonely — 
Unbeloved  and  nothing  loving,  save  his  glorious  mis- 
tress, Art. 

Thus  he  talked ;  and  she  did  listen,  as  if  some  strange 
spell  had  bound  her. 
With  her  eyes  bent  down  so  consciously  you  could  not 
see  their  light, 
Till  the  sweet  winds  with  soft  kisses  wooed  the  flowers  to 
sleep  around  her. 
And  the  summer  stars  looked  tenderly  upon  the  summer 
night. 

When,  with  pleasant  words,  they  parted,  there  was  such 
a  tender  sorrow. 
Soft  beseeching,  in  the  melancholy  midnight  of  his  e3'es, 
That  she  promised — promised  timidly — to  guide  him,  on 
the  morrow. 
To  another  scene  of  beauty  his   artistic   taste  would 
prize. 

Long  that  night  she  sat,  sat  thinking,  where  the  silver 

moonlight  falling 

Through  the  crimson  window  curtains,  tinged  her  pearly 

cheek  with  red ; 

16 


LEOLINE. 

Thinking    of   the   dark-eyed   stranger — ever   and   again 
recalHng 
His  voice  so  softly  cadenced  in  the  eloquent  words  he 
said. 

So  they  met  again  at  evening,  'midst  the  osiers  and  the 
rushes — 
Flow  and  sparkle  of  glad  waters,  flight  and  flutter  of 
bright  wings ; 
And  the  artist's  earnest  speaking,  and  the  lady's  conscious 
blushes, 
Gave  sure  token  that  an  angel's  hand  had  touched  love's 
secret  springs. 

ThencefonN'ard  they  met  often,  and  he  talked  with  vaiied 
learning 
Of  the  orators,  philosophers,  and  bards  of  long  ago ; 
Ever  painting  glowing  pictures  with  impassioned  words 
and  burning. 
While  the  lady's  heart  kept  beating  to  the  measure  of 
their  flow. 

And  he  talked  of  Art's  old  masters,  of  their  wonderful 

creations ; 

Of  the  glorious  immortality  for  which  they  lived  and 

strove ; 

Of  the  customs — he  had  traveled — and  the  characters  of 

nations ; 

Of  all  feelings,  all  emotions,  passions,  sentiments,  but 

love. 

17  ^2 


LEOLINE. 

And  the  lady  sat  beside  him  in  her  beauty,  rarely  speak- 
ing ; 
But  she  listened  with  a  touching,  aye,  a  most  bewitch- 
ing grace ; 
And  he  found  in  her  sweet  silence  the  approval  he  was 
seeking — 
For  he  read  her  heart's  responses  in  the  changes  of  her 
face. 


But  at  length  the  pleasant  summer   died,  with   all  her 
blushing  flowers ; 
And  the  winds  among  the  willows  caught  a  wilder, 
sadder  tone ; 
All  the  singing  birds   departed  to   the  bright  palmetto 
bowers ; 
And  beneath  the  melancholy  trees  the  lovers  met  alone  ; 

Met  to  tell  the  same  fond  story,  so  bewildering  in  its 
sweetness. 
When    obstructions   insurmountable   lie    loving    hearts 
between ; 
Met  to  talk  of  all  life's  lovely,  but  impossible  complete- 
ness. 
And  to  sigh,  as  lovers  always  sigh,  for  that  which  might 
have  been. 

But  one  day  there  came  a  parting,  full  of  sadness,  full  of 
sorrow, 

i8 


LEOLINE. 

And  such  tearful  words  as  blighted  to  the  sick  heart's 
deepest  core  : 
Ah,  for  them  there  was  no  future  ! — ah,  for  them  no  bright 
to-morrow  I 
And  they   saw   but   desolation   where  all   beaut\    was 
before. 

But  they  parted,  and  a  sickness,  very  grievous,  seized  the 
lady, 
Till  her  voice,  so  sweetly  musical,  grew  tremulous  and 
and  weak ; 
And  her  step,  through  all  the  autumn,  went  more  languid 
and  unsteady, 
And  the  shadow  on  her  spirit  stole  the  roses  from  her 
cheek. 

Far   and   near   renowned   physicians   tried,   with   efforts 
unavailing. 
All  the  remedies  suggested  by  the  teaching  of  their  art ; 
But  her  sickness  mocked  their  wisdom,  and  her  strength 
kept  daily  failing ; 
They  concocted  no  elixir  that  could  heal  a  breaking 
heart. 

But  they  recommended  travel,  and  her  doting  father  bore 
her 
Straight  to  Italy's  unclouded  skies,  unending  summer 
bloom  ; 
Hoping  that  the  ocean  journey,  milder  climate,  would 
restore  her, 

19 


LEOLINE. 

Or,  at  worst,  delay  her  going  from  life's  morning  to  the 
tomb. 

So,  the  travelers  came  to  Florence,   when   the  Tuscan 
moonlight  beaming, 
Bound  the  summits  of  the  Apennines  with  bands  of 
paley  gold ; 
Folded  shadows  round  the  palaces  where  human  hearts 
were  dreaming ; 
Kissed  and  overflowed  the  Amo  with  its  beauty  mani- 
fold. 

'VI, 

Soon,  the  lady  seemed  to  waken  in  that  land  of  classic 
beauty ; 
Now  and  then  her  pale  face  brightened  with  the  sem- 
blance of  a  smile, 
Was  she  better,  or  but  feigning,  from  a  sense  of  filial  duty, 
To  dispel  her  father's  sadness  with  a  little,  loving  wile? 

But  she  took  unlooked-for  interest  in  the  charming  world 

around  her ; 
.  Stronger  life,  unwonted  vigor,  stirred  the  pulses  of  her 
heart; 
There,  perchance,  was  some  sweet  sympathy  between  the 
tie  tiiat  bound  her 
To  her  distant  artist  lover  and  that  home  of  living  art. 

She  went  daily  to  the  palaces,  enriched  through  many 

ages, 

20 


LEOLINE. 

With  the  dreams  of  genius  glorified,  enshrined  by  art 
sublime  : 
Dreamed  A\here  dreamed  the  grand  old  masters,  sculp- 
tors, painters,  poets,  sages. 

Whose  voices  are  still  ringing  down  the  shadowy  paths 
of  time. 

To  the  consecrate  Duomo  she  went  often,  rapt,  admiring 
Its  grand  frescoes,  rare  mosaics,  statues,  many-colored 
glooms ; 
And  her  soul  grew  larger,  loftier,  with  a  sense  of  its  aspir- 
ing, 
As  she  read  the  names  engraven  on  the  marble  of  its 
tombs. 

'*They  sleep  well,"  she  said,  "these  masters  of  the  pen- 
cil, lyre  and  chisel ; 
They  sleep  well  beneath  these  monuments,  since  all 
their  work  is  done  ; 
They  have  laid  aside  forever  model,  measure,  pen  and 
easel. 
Bequeathing  Time  the  legacy  their  life-long  labor  won. 

Oh,  that  I  were  poor  and  humble,  or  that  he  had  gold  and 
station ! 
Yet,  the  dust  of  these  immortals  was  as  humbly  born  as 
he; 
Not  to  kingly  grace  or  favor  did  they  owe  their  elevation ! 
Nay,  the  lordship  of  their  genius  won  their  right  of 
patentee. 

21 


LEOLINE, 


J.  D.  Smillik,  a. 


Strolled  she  in  the  Pitti  gardens,  'round  bright  lakelets 
dimpled  over 
By  the  odorous  winds  that  drifted  down  the  snows  of 
orange  flowers ; 
There  the  beaut}%  all  forgetdng,  sweet,  fond  thoughts  of 
her  one  lover 
Went  like  angels  pure  with  noiseless  feet  adown  the 
long,  bright  hours. 


LEOLINE. 

But,  among  the  first  and  fairest,  in  that  pleasure-loving 
city, 
In  the  festive  halls  of  palaces,  her's  was  the  queenliest 
tread ; 
For  she  scorned  to  crave  the  sympathy  that  moves  the 
heart  to  pity. 
And  she   smiled  to  others'   smiling,   scarcely  hearing 
what  they  said. 

To  fair,  rural  Miniato,  regnant  in  its  beauty  doric ; 

To  the  tower  where  Galileo  long  watched  nightly  glow 
and  gleam  ; 
To  Fiesole's  Etruscan  wall,  and  ruined  shrines  historic, 
She  went,  like  one  clairvoyant,  like  one  walking  in  a 
dream. 

But  her  lip  and  cheek  grew  paler,  and  her  sweet  voice 
sadder,  lower ; 
Then  she  rarely  left  her  chamber,  as  the  weary  weeks 
went  by — 
And  still  she  failed  and  faded,  still  her  steps  grew  feebler, 
slower. 
Till  her  father's  heart,  despairing,  gave  its  idol  up  to 
die. 

VII, 

But  one  day — it  was  midwinter — came  a  stranger  with  a 
letter ; 
He  was  charged,  he  said,  to  give  it  only  to  the  lady's 
hand ; 

23 


LEOLINE. 

No  one  ever  knew  its  import,   but  she   suddenly  grew 
better, 
And  they  said  it  was  the  climate  of  that  sunny  Tuscan 
land. 


She  forsook  her  silken  cushions,  and  with  every  day  grew 
stronger, 
Till  the  ripple  of  her  laughter  was  like  music's  sweetest 
spell ; 
And  there  was  a  nameless  trouble  in  her  eyes*  blue  depths 
no  longer ; 
And  the  sunshine  of  her  presence  made  a  glory  where 
it  fell. 

She  grew  famous  for  her  beauty — proudest  nobles  sought 
her  favor ; 
And  she  listened  gently,  kindly,  to  the  passionate  tales 
they  told, 
But  assured  them,  very  earnestly,  it  was  a  vain  endeavor 
To  win  her  heart  to  loving — it  was  marvelously  cold. 

But,  one  morning,   she  was  missing,   and  her  maidens 
vainly  sought  her 
In  her  boudoir,  on  the  terrace,  in  the  garden  far  and 
near ; 
And  her  father,  through  her  chambers,  wildly,  vainly, 
called  his  daughter, 
With  a  face  of  ashy  paleness,  and  a  heart  distraught 
with  fear. 

24 


LEOLINE. 

Then  they  sought  her  in  the  pahices,   and   all   familiar 
places  ; 
But  the  terror-stricken  messengers,  with  wondering  eyes 
astare, 
Came  hurr^dng  back  with  flying  feet  and  ashen-colored 
faces, 
And  in  voices  all  a-tremble   said,   "My  lady  is   not 
there." 

And,  alas  !  the  same  wild  questions  won  from  all  the  same 
replying. 
Till  the  father,  bowed  and  sickened,  sat  with  heart  and 
hope  a-wTack — 
Sat  all  silent  in  his  chamber,  when  the  third  day's  sun- 
light, dying, 
Crowned  with  stars  the  nightly  shadows,  and  the  lady 
came  not  back. 

Very  slowly,  very  sadly,  wore  the  time  away  thereafter — 
Searching  ever  for  the  lost  one,  never  finding  track  nor 
trace. 
Oh  I    the   w^eary,   weary  longing   for   the   ripple   of  her 
laughter. 
For  the  music  of  her  footstep,  for  the  sunshine  of  her 
face ! 

VIII, 

But  there  came  at  length  a  letter,  from  this  trouble-dream 
awakening, 

25 


LEOLINE. 

Left,  it  seems,  by  some  strange  Signior,  who  had  lately 

gone  away ; 
.      But   the  bearer,  in   his   ignorance,  the  name  addressed 

mistaking, 
Was  unable  to  deliver  it,  at  least,  until  that  day. 

*'  Who?     What  Signior?"  asked  the  father.     '*  Have  you 
seen  the  English  lady? 
She  has  soft-blue  eyes,  brown  ringlets ;  she  is  slender, 
fair,  and  tall." 
"No — the  Signior  went  to  Pisa;  he  is  there,  no  doubt, 
already ; 
He  was  all  alone — an  artist — and  my  lodger."     That 
was  all ! 

It  contained  but  few  lines,  written  by  a  hand  that  trembled 
greatly ; 
Here  and  there  a  word  was  blotted,  as  a  tear  had  fallen 
between. 
It  was  written  in  a  hurry — judging  from  its  date  not  lately  ; 
Addressed,  "  My  dearest  father ;"  simply  signed,  "Your 
Leoline." 

Thus  it  ran  :     "  Forgive  me,  father,  for  the  strange  step  I 
have  taken — 
Oh  I  my  heart  is  veiy  heavy,  knowing  it  will  gi\  o  you 
pain ; 
You  will  miss  and  mourn  your  daughter,  in  the  home  she 
has  forsaken  ; 
But  forgive  me,  O  my  father  I — We  may  never  meet 
ai^ain. 

26 


LEOLINE. 

**  He  is  gifted  who  has  won  me  ;  noble,  too,  beyond  com- 
paring 
With  the  proudest  lord  or  gentleman  that  sought  me 
heretofore : 
But,  as  suitor  to  your  daughter,  you  had  spurned  him  past 
all  bearing : 
For  he  is  a  simple  artist,  of  the  people,  proud  and  poor. 

'*  Knowing  this,  I  was  admonished  by  my  duty,  to  forget 
him  ; 
And  I  tried — how  long,  how  vainly,  let  my  lingering 
illness  prove ; 
Therefore,  when  by  chance  befalling,  some  three  months 
ago  I  met  him, 
I  had  learned  that  life  was  valueless  to  me  without  his 
love. 

"Long  before  this  scrawl  will  reach  you,  w^e  shall  be 
beyond  3^our  seeking : 
My  marriage,  though  irregular,  will  leave  no  social 
stain. 
God  knows  only  how  I  love  you — knows,  too,  how  my 
heart  is  breaking 
With  a  sorrow  for  your  sorrow.     Oh,  you  never  gave 
me  pain ! 

But,  forgive  me,  darling  father — by  the  love  we  bore  each 
gther 
In  the  old  days,  when  your  soothing  all  my  babj^-cares 
beguiled  ; 

27 


LEOLINE. 

By  the  sweet  past,  unretuming,  by  the  memoiy^  of  my 
mother, 
Oh,  forgive  me — bless  me,  father,  as  you  blessed  me 
when  a  child." 

IX, 

It  is  said  that  sudden  terror  has  a  force  beyond  our  learn- 
ing- 
Power  to  blanch,  in  one  night's  passing,  raven  tresses, 
snowy  white ; 
But  a  speechless  indignation  changed  that  proud  man, 
iniy  burning. 
Till  he  seemed  to  those  a  stranger  who  had  known  him 
y  ester-night. 

Thenceforward  none  dared  mention  her,  and  never  more 
they  sought  her. 
Nothing  ever  stirred  the  father  from  the  shadow  of  his 
gloom ; 
But  he  made  a  will  most  cruel,  disinheriting  his  daughter. 
And  his  coat  of  arms  was  graven,  that  same  summer, 
on  his  tomb. 

But  the  artist  and  the  lady — they  were  wedded  at  the 

altar 

Of  Saint  Peter  of  Livomo,  by  a  consecrated  light. 

The  lady's  cheek  grew  paler,  but  her  sweet  voice  did  not 

falter 

As  she  made  the  low  responses  of  the  holy  marnage 

rite. 

28 


LEOLINE. 

Thence    they    journeyed    to    Genoa,    the   beautiful   and 
queenly, 
Sitting  on  her  marble  mountains,  with  her  white  feet  in 
the  sea. 
And  arrived  at  fair  Palanza,   when  the  next  day  died 
serenely, 
And  the  starry-fingered  twilight  veiled  the  lovely  lake 
and  lea. 

And  they  sailed  away,   next  morning,   on  bright  Lago- 
Maggiore, 
When  the  first  tones   of  the   silver-sounding   angelus. 
outrung 
From  cloistered  Isola  Madre,  famous  for  its  olden  glory, 
And  lovely  as  Elysian,  by  the  ancient  poets  sung. 

Summer  sunshine  trailed  its  amber-gleaming  tresses  o'er 
the  waters ; 
Bright  wavelets  danced,  with  dimpled  feet,  around  the 
vessel's  prow. 
Making  murmurs  of  low  music,  like  the  voice  of  Nereus' 
daughters 
Singing  love-lays  in  the  grottos  and  coral  groves  below. 

And  they  sailed  between  two  heavens  :     That  beneath  the 

waters  gleaming 
Was  as  brightly  blue  and  limitless  as  that  which  arched 

above. 

Common  things  won  grace  and  beauty  from  the  magic  of 

their  dreaming, 

2g 


LEOLINE. 

And  beauty  gained  a  glory  from  the  sunshine  of  their 
love. 


Breath  of  morning,  odor- freighted   from    fair   blossoms, 
dewy  leafage. 
Waves  that  made  a  merr}^  singing  as  of  bridal  melody, 
Hills,  empurpled  by  the  distance,  azure  sky  and  golden 
rivage — 
All  were  rounded  by  their  happiness  to  one  grand  har- 
mony. 

Far  above  the  sound  and  silence,  one  white  cloud  went 
slowly  sailing 
From  the  chambers  of  Aurora  to  the  gateways  of  the 
West, 
Like    a   fairy   ship,   with   snowy   masts,    and   idle    sails 
a-trailing 
In  the  sunshine  of  the  tropics,  when  the  winds  are  all  at 
rest. 

As  luminous  seemed  their  future  as  that  boundless  upper 
ocean, 
And  their  life,  like  that  fair  cloud-ship  sailing  in  the 
golden  light, 
Freighted  with  the  bliss  and  blessing  of  love's  tenderest 
devotion , 
Should  float   adown  Time's   river,   to   the    Islands   of 
Delight. 

30 


LEOLINE. 


X, 


At  Milan  awhile  they  tarried,  sought  and  saw  the  picture 
painted 
By  heaven-inspired  Da  Vinci,  painted  on  a  convent's 
wall, 
Where  our  Lord  and  his  apostles  are  so  grandly  repre- 
sented 
At  that  sorrowful  "  Last  Supper,"  when  the  shadow  fell 
on  all. 


Much  they  found  it  marred  and  faded — not  by  Time's 
destroying  fingers, 
Nor  the  damp  gloom  of  the  cloister,  but  by  vandal  hand 
of  man  ; 
Yet,  through  all,  a  nameless  glory  'round  its  holy  faces 
lingers, 
And   through   all,  it  is  thy  pilgrim-shrine,   thy  glor}% 
O  Milan! 


Ay,  far  more  than  thy  Cathedral,  where  a  hundred  rain- 
bows stealing 
In  through  story-pictured  windows,  on  high  altars  shim- 
menng  fall — 
More  than  all  its  statued  pinnacles,  and  dome  to  heaven 
appealing. 
Is  that  picture,  marred  and  faded,  on  the  gloomy  con- 
vent wall. 

31 


LEOLINE. 

Thence,  they  came  through  Domo  D'Ossala,  when  purple 
evening  lighted 
Up  the  stars  that  bind  a  coronal  on  Simplon's  hoaiy 
brow ; 
And  they  met  the  early  morning  where  the  human  eye 
affrighted 
Looks  down  on  gorge  and  ghastly  chasm,  a  thousand 
feet  below. 

Slowly  went  the  glooms  departing,  slowly  came  the  sun 
and  gilded 
The  snow-clad  domes  and  minarets,  far  above  their 
path  that  stood, 
Slowly  lighted  up  the  arches,  which  some  mighty  earth- 
quake builded. 
When  Jehovah,  All-Creating,  saw  at  evening  ''it  was 
good." 

And  ever,  as  they  journeyed  lofty  ramparts  'round  and 
under, 
They  saw  the  startled  avalanche  leaping  from  some 
hoary  height. 
And  heard  its  many  voices,  like  successive  peals  of  thun- 
der. 
Repeated  by  the  echoes,  in  the  pauses  of  its  flight. 

But  at  length  they  heard  the  laughter  of  glad  rivulets  and 
fountains, 
And  they  passed  the  awful  gorges,  where  the  lonely 
glazier  weeps, 

32 


LEOLINE. 

To  a  world  of  rural  beauty,  at  the  feet  of  many  moun- 
tains, 
And  awakened  from  their  w^onder-dream,  where  lovely 
Valais  sleeps. 

O  mountain  guards  of  Switzerland !     O  valleys  drest  so 
queenly ! 
Golden-threaded  summer  sunshine,  blossom-perfumed 
summer  air ! 
Lakes  that  charm  the  soul  to  quiet,  looking  heavenward 
so  serenely ! 
Never  gave  ye  sweetest  welcome  to  happier  hearts  than 
theirs. 

XI, 

A  week  therefrom,  with  blithesome  feet,  they  climbed  the 
rocky  highland 
From  which  the  tower  of  Rolanseck  looks  down  through 
shade  and  shine 
On  the  gray  walls  of  the  convent,  on  the  little  quiet  island 
Of   Nonnenwerth,    a-sleeping   in    the    arms    of    father 
Rhine. 

Many  a  winding  path  they  threaded  ere  they  gained  those 
lofty  arches. 
Stopped  and  heard  the  bright  waves  singing  Lurlei's 
siren  songs  below ; 
Ay,  and  listened — listened,  dreaming — to  the  wind  among 
the  larches. 
Telling,  with  a  sad,  low  sighing,  stories  of  the  long 
ago. 


LEOLINE. 

Then  the  lady,  her  face  glowing  with  the  roses  w^on  from 
climbing, 
While  the  evening  sunshine  drifted  'round  her  floods  of 
crimson  gold, 
Told  the  sad  and  touching  story,  in  sw^eet  words  that  made 
a  chiming 
Of  the  noble  knight,  Von  Toggenberg,  who  built  that 
tower  of  old. 

'*  Well,  it  chanced,"  she  said,  *'  in  ages  dead,  in  ages  long 
departed. 
This  brave  Ritter  left  his  castle  and  a  lady  very  dear, 
And  with  Peter,  called  the  Hermit,  eloquent  and  lion- 
hearted. 
Went    to    win    from    Turk    and    Saracen    the    Holy 
Sepulchre. 

<*  *  Oh,'  the  lady  sighed,  '  no  ill  betide !'   till  long,  long 
years  went  over ; 
Sighed  and  waited,  hoping,  praying  in  her  castle  by 
the  Rhine ; 
Waited  till   a  holy  palmer  told  her  God  had  ta'en  her 
lover — 
He  had  seen  him  dead  and  buried  in  the  land  of  Pales- 
tine. 

**Ah,  the  weary  woe,  that  cruel  blow,  that  false,  false  story 
cost  her ! 
Blighted  all  her  maiden  beauty,  slowly,  surely  broke 
her  heart ; 

34 


LEOLINE. 

And  she  left  the  world,  now  empty,  took  the  veil  and  vow 
of  cloister, 
In  the  convent  of  'Our  Lady,'  on  the  isle  of  Nonnon- 
wert. 


**  When,  with  glory  earned,  the  knight  returned  from  Pal- 
estine to  claim  her. 
And  they  told  him  this  sad  stor}-,  all  his  light  of  life 
grew  dim  : 
Never  more  could  he  behold  her — nay,  he  dared  not  even 
name  her ; 
For  she  was  the  bride  of  heaven,  lost  to  love  and  dead 
to  him. 


*'So  he  built  this  tower,  and  worshipped  more  than  all  the 
saints  in  heaven 
The  convent  walls,  that  shrouded  all  the  light  of  his  lost 
star; 
And  he  w^atched  them,  from  the  dawning  to  the  purple  fall 
of  even — 
Watched    them    for    long    years,    from    dawning    till 
*  clinked  her  lattice  bar.' 

*'But  at  last  she  died,  his  soul's  true  bride,  and  the  con- 
vent bells  went  tolling — 
Tolling  o'er  the  bright  Rhine  river,  tolling  to  his  heart 
so  brave ! 
And  they  found  him  on  the  morrow  (love  his  life's  last 
hour  controlling), 

35 


LEOLINE. 

With  his  dead-eyes,  stark  and  staring,  fixed  upon  his 
lady's  grave." 


XII, 

Her  own  lovely  eyes  were  tearful,  when  her  touching  tale 
was  ended, 
And  he  said,  ''So  sweet  a  story^  sweet  lips  never  told 
before." 
Then,  along  the  crimson  sunset,  from  the  hill-top  they 
descended. 
Through   the   purple-laden  vineyards,   to   the  golden- 
sanded  shore. 

So,  their  lives  ran  on  right  brightly,  and  their  pilgrim  feet 
went  straying 
From  the  rivers  of  the  Rhineland  to  the  cides  by  the 
sea ; 
The  artist,  painting  pictures,  wheresoever  they  were  stay- 
ing. 
And,  in  palace,  hall  or  cottage,  was  no  happier  wife 
than  she. 

One  fair  summer  found  them  dwelling  in  a  rural  home, 

embowered 
In  chestnut  trees,  and  climbing  vines,  and  fairest  flowers 

that  blow, 
Where  the  grim  old  Dent  du  Jamin,  like  a  giant  warder, 

towered, 

36 


LEOLINE. 

And  the   waves  of   Lake   Geneva   went   a-sin^in^  far 
below. 

Like  some  tender  dream  of  beaut}-,  that  one  half  forgets 
awaking, 
And  tries,  vainly,  ever  after,  to  remember  and  recall, 
Were  those  months  on  Lake  Geneva — she  for  his  love  all 
forsaking, 
He  giving  in  fond  recompense,  his  heart,  soul,  strength, 
Hfe,  all. 

But  the  summer  blossoms  faded,  and  the  autumn  winds 
came  wailing, 
And  the  lovely  lake  grew  shadowy  and  forgot  its  sum- 
mer song ; 
Cold,  gray  mists,  like  tattered  banners,  'round  the  lofty 
Alps  went  trailing. 
And  the  falling  leaves,  like  little  feet,  kept  pattering  ail 
day  long. 

Then  the  artist's  brow  grew  paler,  and  his  dark  eyes  lost 
their  brightness. 
And  he  passed   the   sunny  threshold   with    a    slower, 
heavier  tread ; 
Lip  and  cheek  grew  sometimes  ghastly,  with  a  strange, 
unnatural  whiteness, 
And  there  often  was  a  tremor  in  the  loving  words  he  said. 

Ne'ertheless,    rare    forms    of   beauty   grew   beneath    his 
pencil  daily ; 

37 


LEOLINE. 

He  embodied  many  golden   dreams  of  many  golden 
years ; 
And,  in  working,  he  trilled  snatches  of  familiar  songs  so 
gaily, 
That  the  young  wife,  all  things  hoping,  half  forgot  her 
troubling  fears. 

When  the  frosts  came,  in  November,  he  seemed  better, 
somewhat  stronger. 
And  the  old  light  came,  by  flashes,  to  the  darkness  of 
his  eyes  ; 
But  one  evening,  when  she  waited,  and  he  tarried  later, 
longer 
Than  was  usual,  she  started  with  a  tremor  of  surprise ; 

And  sought  him  in  his  studio.     There,  the  tender  moon- 
light, shining 
Through  the  lofty  oriel  window,  made  a  glory  'round 
his  head, 
As  he  sat,  asleep  in  seeming,  on  his  easel  half  reclining — 
Ay  ;  asleep  he  was,  nor  wakened  when  she  called  him. 
He  was  dead ! 


XIII. 

Then,  a  shriek,  which  those  who  heard  it  recollected  ever 
after, 
Rang  out  from  that  lone  chamber,  rang  through  hall 
and  corridor : 

38 


/ 
LEOLINE. 

*'  Dead  !  no,  no — O  God — O  darling  !  "  and  she  fell,  with 
maniac  laughter. 
As  pale  and  cold  as  marble,  in  the  moonlight,  on  the 
floor. 

Thence  the  days  went  by  unheeded,  till  one  morning  in 
December, 
When  the  earth  was  hid  with  snow-drifts,  and  the  sky 
with  leaden  gloom, 
She  came  back  to  dim,   half  consciousness,  but   never 
could  remember 
Days  and  weeks  which  passed  unnoted  in  that  bare 
asylum  room. 

''  O  Karl !  "  she  said,  "  I  dreamed  a  dream  of  such  wild 
pain  and  hoiTor ! 
A  dream  that  took  my  strength  away  and  made  me 
almost  ill ; 
See,  my  darling,  how  I  tremble  with  the  memory  of  its 
sorrow ! 
Oh,   its  phantoms  were  so  real,  they  seem  hovering 
'round  me  still !" 

Then,    "Come  love — it  is  morning;  we  have  slept  too 
long  alread}^ ; 
That  fine  picture — is  it  finished  ?     They  are  coming  for 
it  soon  ; 
Yes,  I  mean  that  lovely  picture  of  the  noble  Russian  lady  ; 
She  is  going  to  Geneva,  and  the  boat  will  leave  at 
noon." 

39 


LEOLINE. 

Thus,   for  many  a   day  she   wandered,   ever  kind   and 
sometimes  cheerful ; 
But  forgetting,  through  God's  mercy,  that  one  night  in 
all  the  past. 
Till    the   sympathizing   doctor,   with    a    pallid   face   and 
tearful, 
Considering  it  his  duty,  came  and  told  her  all,  at  last. 

Then  the  agony  and  anguish  that  consumes  the  heart,  and 
gathers 
Bitter  daily  food  from  memor}',  again  had  made  her 
wild  ; 
But  they  brought  a  little  baby,  with  deep,  brown  eyes,  like 
its  father's, 
Laid  it  on  her  aching  bosom,  whispering  low,  this  is 
your  child." 

And  through  all  the  woe  and  weariness  with  which  her 
soul  had  striven. 
Through  the  darkness  and   the   danger,  through   the 
madness  and  strife, 
That  sweet  litde  one  came  smiling,  like  an  angel  sent 
from  heaven — 
Came  to  charm  her,  with  its  helplessness  and  beauty, 
back  to  life. 


XIV, 

So,  not   very   long   thereafter,  she  took  up  again  life's 
burden, 

40 


LEOLINE. 

And  went  down  its  rugged  pathways,  with  sad  heart 
and  feeble  feet ; 
But  she  found  in  holy  mother-love  a  blessing  and  a  guer- 
don, 

Making  povert}^  long,  lonely  toil   and  sore  privation 
sweet. 


Daily,   nightly,   from   the   attic,    where   she   earned  her 
meagre  living, 
And  where  her  one  dear  treasure,  like  a  blossom,  lived 
and  throve, 
Trembled  up  the  humble  incense  of  her  grateful  heart's 
thanksgiving. 
To  the  dear,  good  God,  whose  mercy  gave  her  some- 
thing still  to  love. 

♦ 

He  had  learned   to  lisp  that  sweetest  word   of  all   our 
Saxon— "  Mother," 
And  it  seemed  to  gather  sweetness  from  the  roses  of  his 
mouth, 
As  birds  catch  sweeter  singing  from  the  voices  of  each 
other. 
Or  as  flowers  win  richer  odors  from  the  kisses  of  the 
South. 

Quickly  comes  the  lore  of  babyhood,  and  he  had  learned 
already 
How  to  win  her  fond  caresses,  by  repeating  that  one 
word ; 

41 


LEOLINE. 

While  the  patter  of  his  little  feet,  uncertain  and  unsteady. 
Made  the  sweetest  sound  of  music  that  her  poor  heart 
ever  heard. 


But  he  sickened  in  the  winter,  sickened  suddenly  and 
faded — 
Faded  when  his  little,  happy  life  was  scarcely  two  years 
old; 
Drooped  upon  his  mother's  bosom,  like  a  blossom  too 
much  shaded ; 
Thus  the  silent  angel  found  him  on  the  night  of  which 
I  told. 

Slowly  through  the  attic  window  came  the  chilly  winter 
morning  ; 
Slowly  stirre'd  the  city's  pulses,  down  along  the  frosty 
air; 
But  the  mother  still  sat  singing  by  the  night-lamp  dimly 
burning, 
As  though  soul  and  sense  were  frozen  by  the  torpor  of 
despair. 

Up  and  down  went  men  and  women,  in  their  shut  hearts 
ever  bearing 
Their  individual  burdens — joy  or  sorrow,  hope  or  fear; 
But  in  all  those  busy  thousands,  drifting,  ebbing,  flowing, 
faring. 
There  was  not  one  heart  that  trembled  with  a  thought 
or  throb  for  her. 

42 


LEOLINE. 

So  the  arteries  of  the  cit)'  beat,  beat  all  day  long  around 
her, 
Till  the  setting  sunlight  painted  crimson  bars  along  the 
West—  . 
When  a  neighbor,  in  chance  passing,  to  her  chamber 
came,  and  found  her — 
Found  her  sitting,  stark  and  silent,  with  the  dead  child 
on  her  breast. 

Indianapolis,  April,  1865. 


43 


^'^JiloN'P^Bii^j^io 


WORSHIPPER  in  heaven's  far  courts  !  sub- 
lime 
Gleams   thy  white   forehead,  bound  with 
purple  air ; 

Thou  art  coeval  with  old,  gray-haired  Time  ; 
Yet  thy  colossal  features  are  as  fair 
As   when   the   Omniscient    set   his   signet 
there. 
Wrapped  in  a  royal  robe,  that  human  art 
Could  never  weave,  nor  mortal  monarch 
wear. 
Thou  sitt'st  enthroned  in  majesty  apart. 
Folding  eternal  rest  and  silence  in  thy  heart. 


When  the  Almight}-  mind    went   forth    and 
wrought 
Upon  the  formless  waters ;  when  lie  hung 

44  % 


MONT  BLANC. 

New  worlds  on  their  mysterious  paths,  and  brought 
Light  out  of  brooding  darkness  ;  when  the  young. 
Fair  earth  at  his  command  from  chaos  sprung 

To  join  the  universal  jubilee ; 

When  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  his  triumphs  sung — 

God  left  his  footsteps  on  the  sounding  sea, 

And  wrote  his  glorious  name — proud  monument  I — on  thee. 

Tell  us,  earth-bom  companion  of  the  stars, 

Hast  thou  beheld  when  worlds  were  wrecked  and  riven  ? 
Hast  seen  wild  comets  in  their  red  simars 

O'er  the  far  fields  of  space  at  random  driven? 

Seest  thou  the  angels  at  the  gates  of  heaven  ? 
Perchance  they  lend  that  glory  to  thy  brow 

Which  burns  and  sparkles  there  this  summer  even  ! 
Perchance  their  anthems  float  around  thee  now : 
They  worship  God  alway,  and  so,  Mont  Blanc,  dost  thou. 

vSolemn  evangel  of  almighty  power. 

The  pillars  of  the  earth  support  thy  throne  ; 
Ages  unknown,  unnumbered,  are  thy  dower, 

Sunlight  thy  crown,  the  clouds  of  heaven  thy  zone. 

Spires,  columns,  turrets,  lofty  and  alone ; 
Snow-fields,  where  never  bird  nor  beast  abode  ; 

Caverns  unmeasured,  fastnesses  unknown, 
Glaciers  where  human  feet  have  never  trod — 
Ye  are  the  visible  throne,  the  dwelling-place  of  God. 

W^hat  is  the  measure  of  our  three-score  years? 
What  the  duration  of  our  toil  and  care  ? 

45 


MONT  BLANC. 

What  are  our  aspirations,  hopes  and  fears? 

The  joys  we  prize,  the  ills  we  needs  must  bear? 

The  earthly  goals  we  win,  the  deeds  we  dare? 
Our  life  is  but  a  breath,  a  smile,  a  sigh ; 

We  go,  and  time  records  not  that  we  were  : 
But  thou  wilt  lift  thy  giant  brow  on  high 
Till  time's  last  hour  is  knelled,  lost  in  eternity'. 

And  we,  beholding  thee,  do  turn  aside 
From  all  the  little  idols  we  have  wrought ; 

Self-love,  ambition,  wealth,  fame,  power  and  pride 
Keep  silence  before  thee ;  and  we  are  taught 
A  nobler  aim,  a  more  enduring  thought. 

Our  souls  are  touched  by  the  celestial  fire 
That  glows  on  holier  altars  ;  what  we  sought 

With  might,  heart,  mind,  seems  naught,  and  we  aspire 

To  win  some  surer  good,  some  guerdon  holier,  higher. 

Thou  art  an  altar,  where  the  human  soul 

Pays  God  the  tribute  of  its  prayer  and  praise ; 

Feelings,  emotions  passing  all  control 

Are  bom  of  thee  ;  wondering,  subdued,  we  gaze, 
Till  soul  and  sense  are  lost  in  still  amaze. 

And  the  o'erladen  heart  forgets  to  beat. 
We  feel  the  invisible,  we  seem  to  raise 

The  inner  veil,  to  stand  where  two  worlds  meet, 

Entranced,  bewildered,  rapt,  adoring  at  thy  feet. 


-^AogA^' 


A^ 


^r^ 


46 


We  ¥HE  ^RYE,  m  113  JaNciieN  wi^p  TpE^peNs. 


f:- 


i' 


J 


;HERE    a   glacier   weeps   forever,   like   the 

fabled  Niobe, 
At  the  feet  of  monarch  mountains  in  the 

vale  of  Chamouni, 
Thou  wert  bom,  O  rapid  river !  nursed  by 

torrents  wild  and  strong. 
And  the  thunder  of  the  avalanche  was  thy 

first  cradle-song. 

Through  a  fair  and  fertile  valley,  with  its 

purple-laden  vines. 
Terraced  gardens,  groves  of  linden,  Druid 

oaks  and  and  ancient  pines, 
Where  the  summer  sunshine  golden  crowns 

the  Bas  Alps  far  above ; 
Where  the  butterflies  and  breezes  woo  the 

rhododendron's  love ; 


47 


TO  THE  ARVE. 

Where  the  Ranz  des  Vaches  comes  ringing  down  from 

many  a  green  plateau, 
While   the  vesper  bells   are  chiming  in  the  quiet  vales 

below ; 
By  lordly  parks  and  palaces,  by  homesteads  quaint  and 

low, 
Where  the  peasants  live  as  peasants  lived  five  hundred 

years  ago ; 

Thou  hast  wandered  on  for  ages,  like  a  pilgrim  cowled 

and  gray — 
Like  a  pilgrim  sometimes  kneeling  on  the  shining  sands 

to  pra}^ 
Heedless  of  the  bloom  and  beauty,  of  the  shadow  or  the 

shine. 
Counting  beads  and  Ave-Marie's  on  his  way  to  Palestine. 

Thou  hast  hoarded  in  thy  bosom  many  a  rare  and  radiant 

gem 
That   adorned   Mount   Bernard's   girdle,  or  Argentier's 

diadem ; 
Thou  hast  stolen  perfumed  dew-drops   from  the  fairest 

Alpine  flowers. 
And  filled  thy  curious  scallop-shell  from  brightest  summer 

showers. 

At  thy  feet  the  merry  cascades  fondly  fold  their  snowy 

wings, 

And  thee  worship  with  libations  from  a  thousand  sparkling 

springs ; 

48 


TO  THE  ARVE. 

Summer  sunshine   gaily  binds   thee  with   its   wealth   of 

golden  bars  ; 
I'urple  twilights  clasp  and  crown  thee  with  a  coronal  of 

stars. 

Yet  thy  spirit  is  as  restless,  and  thy  brow  as  dark  and  cold, 
As  if  thy  life  were  weary  with  a  trouble  never  told ; 
And  the  murmur  of  thy  voices  is  like  a  wail  of  woe, 
Or  a  miserere  chanted  in  some  hopeless  world  below. 

By  lordly  parks  and  palaces,  by  mountains  weird  and 

grand, 
By  ruins  where  the  barons  lived  who  whilom  ruled  the 

land. 
By  peasant's  hut  and  hovel,  by  hamlets  quaint  and  gray, 
To  the  city  of  Geneva  thou  hast  made  thy  winding  way* 

Where  that  queen  of  old  Helvetia  from  her  ancient  hill 
looks  down. 

With  the  church  of  sainted  Peter  wearing  still  its  triple 
crown, 

We  have  learned,  O  Arve,  thy  secret,  learned  the  mean- 
ing of  thy  moan — 

For  the  lady  of  th}-  worship  is  the  graceful,  blue-eyed 
Rhone. 

Never,  surely,  came  a  lover  in  such  strange  disguise 
before ; 

Never  ancient  Minne-singer,  palmer-knight  nor  trouba- 
dour, 

49  ^-4 


TO  THE  ARVE. 

Offered  life  and  love's  devotion  at  so  beautiful  a  shrine, 
With  a  brow  so  dark  and  solemn  and  a  voice  so  sad  as 
thine. 

But  she  scorns  thy  first  advances,  and,  with  most  disdam- 

ful  pride, 
Strives  to  keep  her  robes  unsullied  by  the  darkness  of  thy 

tide ; 
Turns  offended  from  thy  presence,  spurns  thee,  shudders 

and  recoils ; 
Flies,  and  flings  her  white  arms  wildly  to  unloose  them 

from  thy  toils. 

Then  ye  journey  on  together,  sad  and  silent,  side  by 

side ; 
But  despair  not,  bold  knight-errant,  thou  shalt  win  her  for 

thy  bride ; 
For  a  love  so  true  is  potent,  in  its  passion  and  its  power. 
To  compel  love's  sweet  responses  in  some  gay,  unguarded 

hour. 

Ah,  now  she  turns  coquettishly  to  thee  her  sunny  face, 
And  all  her  radiant  loveliness  is  lost  in  thine  embrace ; 
And  forever  ye  are  wedded,  wheresoe'er  your  path  may 

be. 
Through  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine  in  your  journey  to 

the  sea. 

Gbnbva,  Switzbrland,  1858. 

so 


•fi<»-o 


j|-Ii;5KEvliEM;^]\[.^:< 


iHOU  art  beautiful,  Lake  Leman, 

When  thy  starn'  waves  are  sleeping, 
Sleeping  in  the  fond  embraces 

Of  the  summer  moon's  soft  light ; 
When  thy  waters  seem  to  listen. 

To  the  blue  Rhone,  sadl}^  weeping 
As  she  parts  from  thee  forever. 

Murmuring  tenderly,  "  Good-night !" 

Thou  art  glorious  when  the  morning. 

Nature's  radiant  evangel, 
Lays  her  cheek  upon  thy  bosom, 

With  her  tresses  all  undone  ; 
When  the  snowy  mists  that  bound  thee, 

Like  the  drapery  of  an  angel, 
Are  woven  into  rainbows 

In  the  pathway  of  the  sun. 

51 


LAKE  LEMAN. 

Thou  art  peerless  when  the  twilight 

Of  a  quiet  summer  even 
Binds  the  Eastern  sky  with  shadows, 

As  the  day  dies  in  the  West ; 
When  the  gold  and  crimson  curtains 

Looped  around  the  gates  of  heaven 
And  the  pathways  of  the  angels, 

Are  painted  on  thy  breast. 

Thou  art  lovely  when  the  vine-hills 

Are  pictured  in  thy  waters, 
Or  when  storm-winds  from  the  Jura 

Crown  thy  waves  with  staiTy  foam ; 
And  the  children  of  thy  valleys. 

Old  Helvetia's  sons  and  daughters. 
When  they  leave  thee,  lake  of  beauty, 

Never  find  another  home. 

But  I  dwell  by  thee  a  stranger. 

Of  my  exile  grown  so  weary. 
That  my  soul  is  sick  with  sighing,. 

Waiting,  longing  to  depart ; 
And  the  music  of  thy  voices 

Makes  me  homesick,  makes  me  dreary. 
Oh,  I  can  not  learn  to  love  thee 

While  my  own  land  fills  my  heart ! 

I  have  climbed  the  snow-capped  mountains. 
Sailed  on  many  a  storied  river, 

And  brushed  the  dust  of  ages 
From  gray  monuments  sublime ; 

52 


LAKE   LEMAN. 

I  have  seen  the  grand  old  pictures 
That  the  world  enshrines  forever, 

And  the  statues  that  the  masters 
Left  along  the  paths  of  Time. 

But  my  pilgrim  feet  are  weaiy, 

And  my  spirit  dim  with  dreaming 
Where  the  long,  dead  past  has  written 

Misty,  hieroglyphic  lore  ; 
In  a  land  whose  pulses  slumber, 

Or  only  beat  in  seeming, 
Where  the  pathway-  of  the  Caesars 

Is  a  ruin  evermore. 

Bear  me  back,  O  mighty  ocean ! 

From  this  Old  World,  gray  and  gory, 
To  the  forests  and  the  prairies 

Far  beyond  thy  stormy  waves, 
To  the  land  that  Freedom  fostered 

To  gigantic,  strength  and  glory, 
To  m}'  home-land  with  its  loved  ones, 

And  its  unforgotten  graves. 

Give  me  back  m}-  little  cottage, 

And  the  dear  old  trees  I  planted, 
And  the  common,  simple  blossoms 

That  bloomed  around  my  door. 
And  the  old,  familiar  home-songs 

That  m}'  children's  voices  chanted, 
And  the  few  who  used  to  love  me — 

And  my  heart  will  ask  no  more. 

Geneva,  Switzerland,  1857. 

53 


^^^W^KE-fT0  -fEEFeJRJF.-^^ 


The  night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work. 


''AKE  to  effort  while  the  day  is  shining ; 

The  time  to  labor  will  not  always  last, 
And  no  regret,  repentance,  or  repining, 

Can  bring  to  us  again  the  buried  past. 

The  silent  sands  of  life  are  falling  fast ; 
Time  tells  our  busy  pulses,  one  by  one ; 

And  shall  our  work,  so  needful  and  so 
vast. 
Be  all  completed,  or  but  just  begun. 
When    twilight   shadows    veil    life's    dim, 
departing  sun? 

What  duties  have  our  idle  hands  neglected? 

What  useful  lessons  have  we  learned  and 

taught? 

What  warmth,   what   radiance,   have  our 

hearts  reflected? 

What  rich  and  rare  materials  have  we 

brought 
For  deep  investigation,  earnest  thought? 
54 


AWAKE  TO   EFFORT. 

Concealed  within  the  soul's  unfathomed  mine, 

How  many  a  sparkling  gem  remains  unwrought, 
That  industry  might  place  on  learning's  shrine, 
Or  lavish  on  the  world,  to  further  God's  design ! 

To  effort !  ye  whom  God  has  nobly  gifted 

With  that  prevailing  power,  undying  song. 
For  human  good  let  every  pen  be  lifted. 

For  human  good  let  ever^^  heart  be  strong. 

Is  there  no  crying  sin,  no  grievous  wrong 
That  ye  may  help  to  weaken  or  repress  ? 

In  wayside  hut  and  hovel,  midst  the  throng 
Down-trodden  by  privation  and  distress? 
Is  there  no  stricken  heart  that  ye  can  cheer  and  bless? 

Sing  idle  lays  to  idle  harps  no  longer ; 

Go  !  peal  an  anthem  at  the  gate  ot  heaven  ; 
Exertion  makes  the  fainting  spirit  stronger. 

Sing,  till  the  bonds  of  igorance  are  riven. 

Till  dark  oppression  from  the  earth  is  driven ; 
Sing,  till  from  every  land  and  every  sea 

One  universal  triumph-song  is  given. 
To  hail  the  long-expected  I'ubilee, 
When  every  bond  is  broke  and  every  vassal  free. 

And  ye,  whose  birthright  is  the  glorious  dower 
Of  eloquence  to  thrill  the  immortal  soul. 

Use  not  unwisely  the  transcendant  power 
To  waken,  guide,  restrain,  direct,  control 
The  heart's  deep,  deep  emotions  ;  let  the  goal 

55 


AWAKE  TO   EFFORT. 

Of  your  ambition  be  a  name  enshrined, 

By  love  and  gratitude,  within  the  scroll 
Where  generations  yet  unborn  shall  find 
The  deathless  deeds  of  those  who  loved  and  blessed 
mankind. 

Go  !  use  the  mighty  energies  that  slumber 

Unknown,  unnumbered  in  the  world's  great  heart ; 
Remove  the  stubborn  errors  that  encumber 

The  fields  of  science,  literature  and  art ; 

Rend  superstitions"  darkening  veil  apart, 
And  hurl  to  earth  blind  bigotr}-,  the  ban 

From  which  a  thousand  grievous  evils  start 
To  thwart  and  mar  the  great  Creator's  plan, 
And  break  the  ties  that  bind  the  brotherhood  of  man. 

And  ye  who  sit  aloft  in  earth's  high  places, 

Perchance  amid  your  wealth  you  scarcely  know 
That  want  and  woe  are  leaving  fearful  traces 

Upon  the  toiling  multitude  below. 

From  your  abundance  can  ye  not  bestow 
A  mite  to  smooth  the  thorny  paths  they  tread? 

Have  ye  no  sympathy  with  human  woe? 
No  ray  of  blessed  hope  and  joy  to  shed 
Upon  the  weary  hearts  that  pine  and  toil  for  bread? 

Amid  the  gorgeous  splendor  that  bedizens 

Your  palaces,  no  longer  idly  stand. 
While  dens  of  wickedness  and  loathsome  pnsons 

Arise,  like  blighting  plague-spots  o'er  the  land  ; 
56 


AWAKE  TO   EFFORT. 

Go !  speak  a  word  and  lend  a  helping  hand 
To  rescue  men  from  degradation's  thrall, 

Nor  deem  a  just  and  righteous  God  hath  banned 
The  toiling  millions,  while  the  rain-drops  fall. 
And  blessed  sunbeams  shine  alike  from  heaven  for  all. 


The  smallest  bark  on  life's  tempestuous  ocean 

Will  leave  a  track  behind  forevermore  ; 
The  lightest  wave  of  injlzience  set  in  motion 

Extends  and  widens  to  the  eternal  shore. 

We  should  be  wary,  then,  who  go  before 
A  myriad  yet  to  be,  and  we  should  take 

Our  bearing  carefully,  where  breakers  roar, 
And  fearful  tempests  gather ;  one  mistake 
May  wreck  unnumbered  barks   that   follow  in  our 
wake. 

Indianapolis,  1851. 


57 


"Nasci,  pati,  mori." 


^Legend  v6Ev3FPEvC^gTIrE:ei!vJlI©NNEnfIE]^.'?^^ 


& 


I  HERE    sunlight   lends    its    softest    summer 
smile, 
And  Mont  Saleve  lifts  his  scarred  brow 
toward  heaven, 
There  is  a  long-deserted  feudal  pile, 
To  ruthless  I'uin  given. 

Beneath  the  precipice  on  which  it  stands. 

Like  a  gray  warder  endless  vigil  keeping, 
Geneva,  like  mosaic  in  gold  bands. 

By  Leman's  side  lies  sleeping. 

No  hardy  flower,  no  clinging  ivy  trains 

A  kindly  leaf  to  veil  its  broken  arches ; 
Of  all  its  garden  bowers  no  trace  remains, 
Save  some  poor  stunted  larches. 


S8 


A  LEGEND. 

Upon  its  ancient  gate,  'midst  rime  and  rust, 

As  a  fit  comment  on  its  fearful  story, 
Some  cunning  hand,  long  gone  to  mouldering  dust, 
Graved  ^^JVasct,  pati,  moriy 

The  moss-grown  iiiin  of  its  massive  wall 

Teaches  the  littleness  of  man's  ambition ; 
But  of  its  ancient  glory  and  its  fall. 

Speaks  only -gray  tradition. 

This  saith,  that  in  the  olden,  feudal  times 

It  w'as  the  stronghold  of  a  warlike  baron, 
Whose  ghost,  condemned  for  unrepented  crimes, 
Still  haunts  the  Styx  with  Charon. 

He  loved  a  noble  lady  of  the  land. 

With  eyes  like  summer  twilight,  blue  and  stany. 
Tresses  like  braided  sunshine,  lily  hand — 
Gentle,  bewitching  faiiy. 

He  loved  her  with  a  heart  that  could  fulfill 

Its  wildest  purpose  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
And  sought  her  with  the  stubborn,  lawless  will 
That  never  brooked  denial. 

But  the  fair  lady  w^as  the  promised  bride 

Of  one  who  w'ore  the  cross  of  a  Crusader, 
Who  gave  his  heart  to  lovely  Linneleid, 
His  sword  to  the  invader. 

59 


A  LEGEND. 

And  he.  Sir  Athold,  was  at  danger's  post, 

The  colors  of  his  lady  waving  o'er  him — 
The  bravest  leaders  of  the  Paynim  host 
Falling  like  grass  before  him. 

Long,  but  in  vain,  the  warlike  baron  wooed ; 

The  lady  still  was  cold  in  word  and  bearing ; 
But  in  those  cloudy  times  the  world  was  rude, 
And  chieftain  lovers  daring. 

And  to  compel  what  love  could  never  gain. 

He  sallied  forth  with  many  an  armed  vassal. 
Surprised  the  lady,  put  to  flight  her  train. 
And  bore  her  to  his  castle. 

And  there,  'midst  waving  torches,  gleaming  swords, 

And  iron  hearts  that  never  deigned  to  falter. 
And  priestly  mockery  of  holy  words. 
He  led  her  to  the  altar. 

She  buried,  then,  the  hopes  of  all  life's  years ; 

Her  cruel  anguish  brooked  not  to  be  spoken ; 
Despair  dried  up  the  fountain  of  her  tears  ; 
Her  gentle  heart  was  broken. 

Yet  there  was  breath  upon  her  pallid  lips. 

And  light  beneath  her  bluo-vcined  eyelids  gleaming  ; 
Hers  was  not  life,  nor  death,  but  that  eclipse 

Which  the  soul  knows  in  dn  imiiiL;. 
60 


A   LEGEND. 

She  sat  in  her  lone  tower,  in  vague  repose, 

Her  sad  gaze  fixed  upon  the  distant  mountains  ; 
And  yet  she  did  not  see  their  winter  snows. 
Nor  hear  their  summer  fountains. 

Heart,  mind  and  being,  wath  one  thought  was  rife ; 
One  blessed  image  mocked  her  souFs  endeavor ; 
It  was  the  only  star  of  her  young  life. 

Distant  and  dimmed  forever. 

Night  crowned  the  mountains  with  pale  coronals, 
And  moonbeams  trembled  down  through  Leman's- 
waters. 
To  light  the  coral  bowers  and  fairy  halls 

Of  Undine's  iair-haired  daughters. 

But,  ho  I  there  was  a  cry,  a  trumpet-blast, 
The  castle's  sleepy  sentinels  alarming  !  ^, 
Wild  words  from  palid  lips,  that  spoke  their  last ; 
Shrieks,  groans  and  hurried  arming. 

They  rallied,  manned  the  ramparts  ;  but  too  late  ! 
The  baron's  furious  life-blood  dyed  the  paving, 
And  soon,  from  lofty  tower  and  massive  gate, 
The  blood-red  cross  was  waving. 

With  fainting  heart  the  lady  heard  that  cry — 

Sir  Athold's  voice  through  the  still  night-air  driven  ;. 
She  could  not  live  to  meet  his  altered  eye, 
And — pity  her,  O  Heaven ! 
6i 


A  LEGEND. 

The  fight  was  over,  and  Sir  Athold  gone 

To  seek  his  lady-love  in  hall  and  bovver ; 
The  lamp  burned  in  her  turret-chamber  lone — 
Where  was  she,  in  that  hour? 

He  breathed  her  name  with  loving  words,  in  vain  ; 

She  heard  him  not,  and  there  was  no  replying. 
Save  the  soft  night- wind  through  the  lattice-pane, 
Mournfully  sighing. 

They  sought  her  with  swift  feet — above,  below  ; 

The}'  called  her  with  wild  words,  but  unavailing ; 
And  morning  found  them  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Their  brave  hearts  faint  and  failing. 

Oh  I  never  did  a  gloomier  night  depart, 

And  never  dawned  a  sadder,  darker  morrow. 
Than  that  which  sealed,  on  brave  Sir  Athcld's  heart, 
His  loss  and  life-long  sorrow. 

At  length,  a  peasant  came,  with  wild  dismay. 

And  hurried  words  of  most  temfic  meaning : 
There  was  a  lady  dead  a  little  way 

From  where  he  had  been  gleaning. 

And  on  the  sands,  where  two  deep  ravines  meet, 

Half  hidden  by  the  pine  plumes  waving  'round  her, 
Below  her  lattice  full  five  hundred  feet. 

Pale  as  the  snows  they  found  her. 
62 


A  LEGEND. 

Oh  I  slowly,  slowly  tolled  the  solemn  knell, 

As  many  a  gallant  knight  and  wondering  vassal 
Wound  with  the  black  pall  up  Pas  dc  V Echelle 
And  bore  her  to  the  castle. 

With  tearful  eyes  they  made  her  grave  apart ; 

With  loving  hands  the}^  laid  the  cross  above  her ; 
And  there  the  lady  with  the  broken  heart 
Sleeps  with  her  noble  lover. 

But  there  are  those  who,  on  a  certain  night, 

Deem  they  can  hear  a  w  ail — a  low,  wild  weeping- 
And  see  a  lady,  in  a  robe  of  white. 

From  that  same  lattice  leaping. 

The  brave  Sir  Athold  w^ent  not  forth  again 

To  tread  the  warrior's  dizzy  path  of  glory ; 
But  as  he  lived,  had  suffered,  loved  in  vain, 
Wrote,  "•JVasci,  pati,  mori,''' 

Geneva,  Switzerland,  1857. 


y 


63 


'The  Union— It  must  be  preserved." — Andrew  Jackson. 


ISSOLVE  the  Union!     Let   the    blush    of 
shame 
Hide  with  its  crimson  glow  the  brazen 
cheek 
Of  him  who  dares  avow  the  trait Vous  aim. 
'Tis  not  the  true,  the  wise,  the  good  who 

speak 
Words  of  such  fearful  import ;   but  the 
weak, 
Drunk  with  fanaticism's  poisonous  wine, 

And,  reckless  of  the  future,  madly  seek 
To  hold  their  saturnalia  at  the  shrine 
Sacred  to  human  Freedom,  human  rights 
divine. 

64 


THE  UNION. 

Dissolve  the  Union  !     Madmen,  would  ye  rend 

The  glorious  motto  from  our  country's  crest? 
Would  ye  despoil  the  stars  and  stripes,  that  lend 

Home,  food,  protection  to  the  world's  opprest? 

Have  ye  no  reverence  for  the  high  bequest 
That  our  immortal  sires  bestowed  erewhile  ? 

Has  sin  defaced  the  image  God  imprest 
On  your  humanity,  that  ye  could  smile 
To  see  the  lurid  flames  of  Freedom's  funeral  pile  ? 


Dissolve  the  Union !     In  the  day,  the  hour 

Ye  rend  the  blood-cemented  tie  in  twain, 
The  fearful  cloud  of  civil  war  will  lower, 

O'er  every  old  blue  hill  and  sunny  plain, 

From  torrid  Mexico  to  frigid  Maine, 
And  men  will  arm,  and  strange,  new  banners  wave, 

And  pallid  women  look  on  kindred  slain  ; 
Brothers  will  battle,  and  the  life-blood  lave 
Thresholds  that  husbands,  fathers  died  in  vain  to  save. 


Dissolve  the  Union  !     No  !  ye  can  not  part, 

With  idle  words  the  blessed  ties  that  bind 
In  one  the  interests  of  that  mighty  heart 

That  treasures  up  the  hopes  of  all  mankind. 

Awhile,  perchance,  the  blind  may  lead  the  blind, 
And  men  may  follow  phosphorescent  light 

From  beaten  paths  to  quagmires,  ere  they  find 
The  ray  that  shone  so  beautiful  and  bright. 
Was  but  a  phantom-lure  to  deeper,  darker  night. 
65  ^6 


THE  UNION. 

Dissolve  the  Union  I     Never  !     Ye  may  sow 

The  seeds  of  vile  dissension  o'er  the  land, 
That  men  may  reap  in  sorrow ;  ye  may  show 

The  world  your  disregard  of  all  its  grand 

Eternal  interests  ;  but  a  noble  band 
Of  patriots,  tried  and  true,  will  still  remain, 

With  heart  to  heart,  and  sinewy  hand  to  hand, 
To  guard  from  foul  dishonor's  cankering  stain 
The  jewels  God  has  shrined  in  Freedom's  holy  fane. 

Dissolve  the  Union  !     No  !  destroy  the  page 

That  gives  to  human  sight  the  hideous  scrawl. 
Let  not  the  freemen  of  a  future  age 

Read  these  detested  words  ;  they  would  recall 

Shame,  madness,  im.becility  and  all 
That  mars  the  noon-tide  glor}'  of  our  time. 

True  to  the  undivided,  stand  or  fall. 
To  waver  now  is  little  less  than  crime ; 
To  battle  for  the  right  is  glorious,  is  sublime. 

Indianapolis,  July,  1850. 


66 


•^IlEeENDveEvCp^'FE^avCFENE.-Ss- 


# 


i 


HE  Lad}'  Loline  was  wond'rous  fair, 

With  a  golden  gleam  in  her  rippling  hair, 
And  eyes  of  the  deepest,  darkest  blue 
That  ever  a  beautiful  soul  shone  through. 
And  the  sweetest  mouth 
The  wind  from  the  South 
Ever  kissed  to  a  daint}^  rose-leaf  hue. 

And  she  had  a  lover  true  and  brave, 

But  lowly  of  birth  and  therefore  banned 
And  sent,  men  said,  to  an  early  grave 

In  a  foreign  land. 
Living  or  dead,  he  was  out  of  the  wa}' 
Of  the  long  pursuit  of  the  Baron  Bray 

For  the  lady's  hand. 

67 


A   LEGEND. 

The  Baron  was  bent,  wrinkled  and  gray — 

The  Baron  was  querulous,  crabbed  and  old, 
But  the  Baron  was  rich — broad  lands  had  he 
From  his  castle  gate  clear  down  to  the  sea ; 

Had  hounds,  and  horses,  and  hords  of  gold. 
And,  at  last,  the  lady's  consent  is  given 
To  wed  the  Baron  to-night  at  seven. 

The  day  had  died  in  a  drizzling  rain. 

And  the  purple  glooms  of  twilight  fall — 
It  will  soon  be  dark  in  the  grand  old  park, 
And  down  by  the  moat  and  rampart  wall, 
But  radiant  lii^ht 
Will  stream  to-night 
From  every  casement  of  Chateau  Chene. 

The  bride  is  arrayed  in  silken  sheen, 
With  snowy  buds  and  flowers  between 
The  cloud-like  folds  of  her  costly  lace. 
With  diamonds  rare 
In  her  gold-bronze  hair  ; 
Yet  the  eye  could  trace 
A  fitful  shadow  of  anxious  care 
On  her  gentle  face. 

The  clock  in  the  turret-tower  strikes  eight — 

But  where  is  the  groom 

That  he  does  not  come? 
The  guests  and  the  minstrels  wondering  wait, 

And  the  wind  cries  wild, 

Like  a  homeless  child. 
In  the  sliivering  elms  of  the  casde  gate. 
68 


A  LEGEND. 

The  yule  fire  burns  with  a  ruddy  glow, 

And  the  minstrel  plays  as  the  hours  go  by, 

But  the  garlands  fade  and  the  guests  speak  low. 

As  if  afraid  of  impending  woe. 

The  bride  looks  out  from  her  lattice  pane. 

But  she  only  hears  the  soughing  rain. 

And  the  sobbing  wind  in  the  turrets  high. 

The  clock  tolls  twelve  in  the  ancient  tower, 
And  the  night  wind  shrieks  in  eldrich  glee ; 

The  lights  grow  dim  in  hall  and  bower. 

And  fair  .cheeks  pale,  for  ghosts  have  power 
In  this  weird  hour 
To  walk  the  green  earth  free. 

Hark  !     "  Comes  the  bridegroom?"     Nay,  not  he. 

As  a  mail-clad  form  with  a  raven  plume 
Comes  slowly  out  of  the  nightly  gloom  ; 
He  makes  no  pause,  he  speaks  no  word. 
Scarcely  the  fall  of  his  tread  is  heard ; 
But  the  pale  lights  flare 
In  the  sulphurous  air 
As  he  threads  his  way  and  mounts  the  stair 
To  the  bride's  own  room. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  wind  and  rain. 

But  the  chateau  shook,  and  tremors  ran 

From  dungeon  keep  to  bartizan. 
The  guests  and  the  minstrels  held  their  breath, 
As  if  they  had  looked  on  the  face  of  death, 

And  fled  away  in  pale  aflfright 

Into  the  dark  and  dismal  night 
From  the  horror-haunted  Chateau  Chene 

69 


A  LEGEND. 

The  morning  sunshine  softly  stole 

Over  the  scene  of  last  night's  dole, 

Burnished  the  board  where  the  feast  was  spread ; 

Kissed  the  garlands  pale  and  dead, 

And  trembled  into  the  purple  gloom 

That  hung  its  folds  in  my  lady's  room. 
But  the  lovely  bride  in  silken  sheen 
Was  not  where  they  crowned  her  yestere'en. 

They  sought  her  east  and  they  sought  her  west, 

Afar  and  near,  by  land  and  sea  ; 
But  all  in  vain  was  their  anxious  quest : 

Where  could  the  lady  be? 
When  and  how  had  she  met  her  doom? 
And  the  phantom  knight  with  the  raven  plume. 
From  whence,  and  what  was  he? 

The  wonder  died,  but  the  story  ran 
That  the  Seneschal,  an  aged  man, 
Avowed  he  had  seen  the  phantom  knight 

Bearing  away  the  fair  young  bride 
In  her  robes  of  white. 
Over  the  moat  and  through  the  park, 
On  a  coal  black  steed,  in  the  storm  and  dark, 

As  never  a  mortal  man  could  ride. 

Beech  Bank.  April,  1877. 


70 


&->^ 


^2|-TpEvIr0]VIvP0R5E. 


iHEY  have  given  the  iron  horse  the  rein, 


And  he  flies  away  o'er  the  sunny  plain, 
Shrieking  and  clanking  the  bolts  and  bars 
That  fetter  his  strength  to  the  rumbling  cars, 
Away  through  the  valley  and  mountain  pass, 
O'er  the  dark  ravine  and  the  dank  morass. 
Panting  and  puffing  his  clarion  peals. 
Shaking  the  earth  with  his  iron  heels. 
And  flashing  the  sparks  from  his  fiery  eyes, 
Like  a  hunted  fiend,  he  shrieks  and  flies ! 
On,   on,   through   the  tunnel  so  dark  and 

drear. 
On,  over  the  bridges  that  quake  with  fear, 
By  the  stagnant  fens  and  the  limpid  rills. 
Through  the  clefted  hearts  of  the  ancient 

hills. 
Where  the  startled  echoes  faint  and  die 
In  their  vain  attempts  to  repeat  his  cry. 
Now  faster  away,  as  if  terrible  need 

71 


THE   IRON   HORSE. 

Were  adding  a  spur  to  his  fearful  speed. 
Hushed  is  the  voice  of  the  rushing  river ; 
The  winds  are  low,  but  the  old  trees  shiver ; 
The  sun,  like  a  drunkard,  reels  around ; 
The  wild  beasts  start  from  the  haunted  ground, 
And  the  bending  sky  seems  rent  apart 
With  the  dreadful  throbs  of  his  mighty  heart ! 
Hurrah  !  he  is  mocking  the  w^andering  wind, 
And  leaving  the  laggard  far,  far  behind ; 
City,  and  hamlet,  and  river,  and  plain, 
Like  pictures  of  chaos,  confuse  the  brain, 
As  they  loom  in  sight  and  vanish  away, 
Like  dissolving  views  in  a  giant's  play. 
And  thus  the  horse  with  the  iron  heart. 
Bearing  his  burden  from  mart  to  mart, 
Panting  and  puffing  his  clarion  peals, 
Shaking  the  earth  with  his  clanging  heels, 
Flashing  the  sparks  from  his  fier^'  eyes, 
Like  a  hunted  demon,  shrieks  and  flies. 

Indianapolis,  October,  1856. 


72 


^^CejaiNevPejaE.^^ 


(£^ 


UT  by  the  work  now,  and  heap  up  the  fire, 
Till   it   crackles   a   welcome   w^arm    and 
bright ; 
^^&^P  Let  the  curtains  down,  draw  the  sofa  nigher. 
For  surely  the  boys  will  be  home  to-night. 


"Their  letter  was  dated  two  weeks  ago — 
They  intended  to  start  for  home  next  day  ; 

But  as  Freddy  was  weak,  they  have  trav- 
elled slow. 
And  so  many  chances  might  cause  delay, 

"That   I   scarcely  expected  them  sooner; 
and  yet 
I  have  counted  the  hours  from  dark  till 
dawn. 
And  rejoiced  to  think,  when  the  sun  had  set, 
That  another  wearisome  day  was  gone. 

73 


COMING    HOME. 

*'And  Harry  was  wounded,  the  letter  said ; 

Thank  Heaven  !  it  added,  the  wound  is  shght. 
Hark  I  Hsten  I     I  think  I  can  hear  their  tread — 

No,  no ;  but  they  surely  will  come  to-night. 

''The  year,  like  a  tiresome  dream,  has  passed — 
Twelve  months  of  waiting,  and  weeping,  and  pain  ; 

For  I  thought,  when  I  saw  their  faces  last, 
That  I  should  not  see  them  alive  again. 

*'  But  the  cars  should  be  in  by  this  time.     Hark  I 
Shall  I  go  to  meet  them,  or  wait  and  pray? 

For  the  night  is  fearfully  wild  and  dark — 
Ah !  some  one  is  coming,  at  last,  this  way." 

Steadily  on,  through  the  wind  and  sleet, 
Like  the  tread  of  men  who  a  burden  bore, 

Came  the  measured  fall  of  approaching  feet 
Steadily  on  to  the  cottage  door. 

And  heavily  into  that  cheerful  room. 

With  their  heads  uncovered  and  faces  brown, 

Strong  men  came  out  of  the  night  and  the  gloom, 
And  laid  two  white,  pine  coffins  down. 

And  so,  to  the  homestead  that  love  and  care 
Had  made  so  cheerful,  and  warm,  and  bright — 

To  the  old,  fond  mother  that  waited  there. 
Her  two  boys  came  from  the  war  that  night. 

Inoianapolis,  February,  1863. 

74 


^^6erji^NY.^> 


.OULD  God  command  the  Jightning  from  on 

YC         To  speak  one  word  in  thunder  tones  to 
thee ; 
To  write,  wdth  lurid  finger,  on  th}-  sky, 

One  spirit-stirring  sentence,  it  would  be : 
"Awake,  and  sleep  no  more  till  thou  art 
free !" 
Then  would  an  echo  rise  from  patriot 
graves, 
And  Rhine,  far-flashing  to  the  deep  blue 
sea, 
Would  murmur,  with  the  voice  of  many 

waves  ; 
"Awake,    awake   to  arms  I    and  be  no 
longer  slaves." 

Is  there  no  word,  no  talisman,  to  still 
The  bitter  feuds  that  keep  thy  sons  apart? 

75 


GERMANY. 

Is  there  no  charm  in  liberty,  to  thrill 

The  slumbering  pulses  of  thy  mighty  heart? 

Oppressed,  enslaved,  down-trodden  as  thou  art, 
Wilt  thou  in  coming  ages  still  remain? 

Or,  with  one  arm,  one  heart,  one  effort  start 
And  rend  at  once  the  iron  links  in  twain 
That  bind  upon  thy  sons  the  vassal's  galling  chain. 


Where  are  the  children  of  the  men  whose  frown 

Made  Europe  tremulous  and  pale  of  yore? 
The  men,  who  trod  the  Roman  legions  down, 

Defending  freedom  on  the  Lippe's  shore? 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  the  host  that  bore 

The  "Angel's  Banner''  o'er  the  gory  sand, 
Beside  Lech's  sparkling  w^aters,  evermore? 

Has  that  free  spirit  left  thee,  father-land? 

And  must  thy  sons  still  wear  the  bondman's  scath- 
ing brand  ? 


No,  thou  art  'wakening  from  thy  torpid  sleep. 

And  sounds,  like  gathering  waters,  murmur  by — 

Sounds  of  a  coming  tempest,  low  and  deep ; 
And  soon  thine  ancient  hills  and  vaulted  sky 

Shall  echo  back  thy  children's  battle-crj^'  I 
A  still,  small  voice  is  heard,  in  solemn  tones, 

Forever  whispering,  ''  Let  the  tyrants  die  !  " 
New  life  and  spirit  breathe  upon  the  bones 
That    pillar    and    support    thy    blood-cemented 
thrones. 

76 


GERMANY. 

Thy  blood-cemented  thrones  I  is  it  not  so  ? 

Were  they  not  built  of  sinews,  blood  and  tears? 
Were  they  not  founded  deep  in  human  woe? 

Sustained  by  human  toils  and  human  fears? 
But,  lo  I  from  out  the  shadow  of  old  years — 

The  deepening  shadow  of  the  dreamy  past — 
A  form  of  light  and  loveliness  appears  ; 

Thank  Heaven,  the  soul  returns  to  thee  at  last, 

To  call  thy  sons  to  arms  with  Freedom's  clarion 
blast. 

Send  forth  thy  hosts  from  mountain,  stream  and  glen. 

From  hut  and  hamlet  call  the  peasant — slave ; 
Though  cowed  and  trampled  on,  they  still  are  men ; 

Let  weapons  glitter,  let  thy  banners  wave. 
Stamped  with  the  motto,  '*  Freedom  or  a  grave  I  " 

Fight,  till  the  Rhine  is  red  from  shore  to  shore, 
Red  with  the  life-tide  of  the  true  and  brave ; 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion  !  let  the  cannon  roar ! 

Till  thou  art  free  again,  as  in  the  days  of  yore. 

Indianapolis,  October  25.   1849. 


•-^|yio(%^ 


IsaJ 


^x 


77 


^if  ^H^LIi :  WE :  Know  :  aUI^ :  Fl^IENDg :  IN :  Pe^YEN.^^ 


E  can  not  hear  the  fall  of  gentle  feet 

Beyond  the  river  they  may  cross  no  more, 
^  Nor  see  familiar  faces,  angel  sweet, 
^v^^^-'j^^-^^^^     Through  the  dim   distance,  on  the  other 
shore. 


Where  are  the    friends,  companions   down 
the  years, 
Who  shared  our  care  and  labor,  gain  and 
loss, 
Who  wept  with  us,  in  sorrow,  bitter  tears, 
Who  knelt  beside  us  at  the  Savior's  cross  ? 

Some  were  a-weary  of  the  world,  and  old ; 

And  some  had  scarcely  passed  meridian 
prime; 
And  some  were  gathered  to  the  blessed  fold 

In  all  the  beauty  of  life's  morning  time. 

78 


OUR  FRIENDS   IN   HEAVEN. 

A  few  had  climbed  the  heights  not  many  gain, 
And  battled  nobly  for  the  good  and  true  ; 

Many  wrought  humbly,  on  life's  common  plane. 
But  all  accomplished  what  they  came  to  do. 

And  as  we  walked  together,  by  the  way. 

They  turned  and  left  us — left  us,  one  by  one  ; 

Love  followed  weeping,  but  they  might  not  stay 
For  all  her  pleading,  when  their  work  was  done. 

Shall  we  not  meet  again,  or  soon,  or  late? 

Meet  at  the  entrance  to  the  final  goal  ? 
Did  the  Pale  Angel,  at  the  shadowy  gate, 

Undo  the  tie  that  bound  us,  soul  to  soul? 

Nay.  By  the  holy  instincts  of  our  love — 
By  ever}^  hope  humanity  holds  dear, 

I  trust  in  God  to  meet  my  treasures  trove, 
Tenderly  loving,  as  we  parted  here. 

It  must  be  so,  if  deathless  mind  retain 

The  noblest  attributes  that  God  has  given ; 

Love,  hope  and  memory  count  but  little  gain. 
If  what  they  win  on  earth  be  lost  in  Heaven. 

And  if  the  human  love,  that  underlies 

All  that  is  true  and  good,  in  man's  estate — 

All  that  remains  to  us  of  paradise, 

Were  lacking  there.  Heaven  would  be  desolate. 
79 


OUR   FRIENDS   IN   HEAVEN. 

Nay.     As  the  rich  man  knew,  on  Abraham's  breast, 
The  whilom  beggar,  at  his  palace  gate ; 

As  Saul  knew  Samuel,  when,  at  God's  behest, 
He  came  to  v/am  the  monarch  of  his  fate ; 

As  Moses  and  Eli  as,  heavenly  bright. 

Were  recognized  upon  the  mount  sublime, 

Shall  we  know  our  beloved,  in  the  light 
That  lies  beyond  the  shores  of  death  and  time. 

Beech  Bank,  March,  1876. 


80 


^^WpE^TENEMENW-fPeagE/ 


't' — i) 


THREADED  my  way,  through  wind  and 

snows 
One  w^inter  night,  to  a  tenement  row. 
The  place  seemed  under  tlie  ban  and  bhght 
Of  a  ghastly  spell,  that  stormy  night. 
Unearthly  footsteps  seemed  to  fall 
In  the  dismal  darkness  down  the  hall. 
Unearthly  v^oices,  deep  and  low, 
Seemed  to  whisper  a  tale  of  w^oe 
From  reeking  angle  and  rotten  stair. 
As  through  the  foul  and  fetid  air 
I  groped  along  to  the  broken  door 
Of  a  certain  room — or,  rather,  den — 
Such  as  some  w^ealthy,  prosperous  men 
Build,  and  rent  to  the  homeless  poor. 
The  door  was  ajar,  within  all  dark ; 
Never  an  ember,  never  a  spark 
Glowed  or  glimmered  athwart  the  gloom 
That  hung,  like  a  pall,  in  that  wretched  room. 
8 1  6-Q 


THE  TENEMENT   HOUSE. 

But  I  heard  the  patter  of  children's  feet, 
And  the  sound  of  voices  sad  and  sweet ; 
And  one — he  was  onl^^  three  years  old — 
Said,  ''Tissy,  ot  makes  mamma  so  told ; 
Pease  et  me  ake  her?  "  the  sweet  voice  plead, — 
**  I  is  so  hungy  ;  I  onts  some  bed — 
Only  ze  littlest  piece  ill  do, 
And  Donny  ill  dive  a  bite  to  oo." 
'*  Hush,  Johnny,  hush,"  the  sister  said, 
**  There  is  not  a  single  crust  of  bread. 
Don't  wake  poor  mamma  ;  she's  sick,  you  know- 
So  sick  and  weak  that  she  can  not  sew. 
Don't  you  remember  how  she  cried. 
When  she  bade  me  put  the  work  aside? 
And  how  she  kissed  us  when  she  said, 
*  The  Father  in  Heaven  will  give  us  bread.' 

''All  day  long,  through  the  snow  and  sleet, 
I've  wandered  up  and  down  the  street ; 
And,  Johnny,  I  held  my  freezing  hand 
To  crowds  of  ladies,  rich  and  grand. 
But  they  did  not  hear  me,  when  I  said, 
'  Please  give  me  a  penny  to  buy  some  bread.' 
One  beautiful  lady  turned  and  smiled. 
But  she  only  said,  '  Don't  touch  me,  child." 
In  their  splendid  clothes,  they  all  swept  by, 
And  I  was  so  cold — but  I  did  not  cry. 
O,  Johnny,  I  never  begged  before  ; 
But  I  went  to-day  from  door  to  door, 
Till  my  ver^-  heart  grew  faint  and  weak, 
And  I  shivered  so  I  could  hardly  speak. 
82 


THE  TENEMENT   HOUSE. 

But  when  I  remembered  that  mamma  said, 
'  The  Father  in  Heaven  will  give  lis  bread,' 
I  quite  forgot  the  shame  and  the  pain. 
And  w^ent  on  asking,  and  asking  in  vain. 
Till  I  scarce  could  move  my  freezing  feet. 
And  when  they  lighted  the  lamps  in  the  street, 
I  came  away,  through  the  mud  and  the  mire. 
With  nothing  to  eat  or  to  make  a  fire  ; 
But  as  I  was  passing  Denny's  shop, 
Some  one  called  out,  '  Stop,  Katy,  stop  ! ' 
And  out  came  little  Sammy  Dole, 
And  filled  my  basket  with  wood  and  coal. 
So  now  we  can  have  a  fire,  you  see. 
And,  O  I  how  nice  and  warm  it  will  be. 
And,  Johnny,  if  3'ou"ll  be  still  and  good, 
I'll  tell  you  Little  Red  Riding  Hood." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  is  hungy,"  the  wee  one  said, 
''Tant  oo  dive  me  a  tumb  of  bed? 
Dest  a  tumb?     I  sink  oo  tould — 
And  Donny'll  go  to  seep,  and  be  dood." 

"  There  is  not  a  crumb  of  bread — don't  cry ; 
Soon  in  the  morning  Sissy  will  try 
To  get  poor  mamma  a  bit  of  meat. 
And  some  nice,  white  bread  for  Johnny  to  eat." 

By  this  time  the  little,  cold-blue  hands 
Had  heaped  together  some  half-charred  brands 
And  kindled  a  fire.     Oh  !  surely  the  light 
Never  revealed  a  sadder  sight 
Than  greeted  my  eyes  that  winter  night. 
Walls  damp  and  broken,  a  window  bare, 

83 


THE  TENEMENT  HOUSE. 

A  rickety  table,  a  bottomless  chair, 
A  floor  discolored  by  soil  and  stain  ; 
Snow  driving  in  through  a  missing  pane ; 
Wee,  womanly  Katy,  scarce  nine  years  old, 
Pinched  and  shmnken  with  hunger  and  cold ; 
Sw^eet  baby  Johnny,  \^ith  dimpled  feet. 
Sobbing,  pleading  for  something  to  eat ; 
A  tattered  bed,  where  the  eye  could  trace 
A  human  form,  with  a  thin,  white  face — 
A  thin,  white  face,  that  had  once  been  fair, 
Framed  in  a  tangle  of  light-brown  hair ; 
The  sad  eyes  closed,  the  lips  apart. 
The  pale  hands  crossed  on  a  quiet  heart. 

Softly  Katy  approached  it  now. 
And  pressed  a  kiss  on  the  marble  brow ; 
Then,  with  a  smothered  cr}-,  she  said  : 
"Johnny,  O  Johnny  ! — mamma  is  dead  ! 
Speak  to  me,  mamma — one  word  !  "  she  cried  ; 
"  Oh,  speak  to  Katy  !''     No  voice  replied ; 
But  Johnny  crept  to  the  pulseless  breast 
Where  his  golden  head  was  wont  to  rest, 
And,  nesding  close  to  the  icy  form. 
Said,  **  I  tan  teep  sweet  mamma  orm." 
But  the   mother,  outworn   with  the  sti*uggle  and 

strife. 
From  the  madness  and  toil  of  the  battle  of  life, 
Had  silently  gone  to  that  beautiful  shore 
Where  the  rich  man  hath  need  of  his  gold  never- 
more. 


84 


^^6eNE.3i«. 


JUDGE  JAMES    MORRISON. 


;ONE,  O  my  friend  !  not  for  a  little  space, 

To  sojourn  in  some  pleasant  foreign  land, 
IcS^^^e       Whence  we  may  hope  to  see  again  thy  face. 
To  clasp  again  thy  hand. 

Ah,  no  !     The  yule-fire  on  thy  hearth  may 
burn  ; 
Friends  meet  around  thy  table,  as  of  yore  ; 
But  they  will  watch  and  wait  for  thy  return 
To  the  old  home  no  more. 

Thy  trees  and  garden  bowers  will  bud  and 
bloom  ; 
Summer  will  bring  the  song  of  bird  and 
bee, 
Soft  lights  and  shadows,  blossoms  and  per- 
fume. 

But  ne\crmore  for  thee. 
8s 


GONE. 

Gone,  and  the  world  is  poorer  by  the  loss 

Of  one  high,  generous  heart  and  noble  mind, 
Tried  as  by  fire,  and  purified  from  dross 
As  fine  gold  is  refined. 

O  earnest  worker !  true  in  word  and  deed. 

Through  all  the  years  that  God  appointed  thee, 
Sowing  in  field  and  fallow  precious  seed, 
For  harvests  yet  to  be  ; 

Walking  through  storm  and  sun,  in  faith  sublime, 

By  the  still  waters,  by  the  arid  waste. 
Leaving  no  track  upon  the  shore  of  Time 
That  we  could  wish  eflaced  ; 

Thy  path  grew  brighter  to  the  perfect  day, 

Thy  death  triumphant  crowned  a  life  complete— 
A  life  whose  light  revcaU-d  \he  better  way 
To  our  uncertain  feet. 

We  sorrow  not  for  thee,  O  ransomed  soul ! 

But  for  our  lives,  so  lonely,  so  bereft — 
Not  for  the  victor  crowned  within  the  goal. 
But  for  the  void  he  left. 

Yet,  looking  through  the  shadows  cold  and  gray, 

By  Faith  we  see  the  ^lory  thou  hast  won; 
Hold  up  our  cMiiptN  hands  to  Heaven  and  say, 

**  Father.  11iy  will  hr  done." 
86 


GONE. 

We  shall  not  stay  behind  thee  long,  dear  friend, 

For  every  dawning  day  and  closing  night 

Our  road  hath  fewer  mile-stones,  and  the  end 

Lies  just  beyond  our  sight. 

Soon  we  shall  finish  what  we  find  to  do, 

Soon  our  last  hour  shall  toll  its  parting  knell. 
Till  then,  O  friend,  long  tried  and  ever  true, 
Farewell !  farewell  I  farewell ! 

Elm-Croft,  April,  1869. 


87 


->^ 


^ifTo  :"0ai^ :  TeTIE."-?:^ 


IE,  in  that  far  countiy  where  thou  art, 
Thou  canst  not  hear  thy  mother's  cease- 
less moan  ; 
hou  canst  not  know  the  yearning  of  her 

heart, 
Nor    see    how    desolate    her    path    has 
grown. 
'Tis  better  thus.     I  would  not  grieve  thee 
now. 
Nor   dare   to   murmur   at   our   Father's 
will. 
But  come  and  lay  thy  white  hand  on  my 
brow, 
And  whisper,  **  Mother,  Tetie  loves  thee 
still." 

Come,  darling,  come. 

88 


OUR  TETIE. 

Together,  long  ago,  we  went  life's  way — 

A  glad  young  mother  and  a  fair-haired  child ; 
I  taught  thy  feet  to  walk,  th}-  lips  to  pray, 

And  thy  sweet  prattle  all  my  hours  beguiled. 
And  so  we  went  together  down  the  years, 

Noting  time  only  when  we  were  apart ; 
Sharing  each  other's  joys,  each  other's  tears ; 

Living  and  loving  with  one  mind  and  heart 
In  our  old  home. 


Thy  feet  grew  w^eary  ere  life's  morning  sun 

Exhaled  the  dewdrops  from  its  opening  flowers  ; 
Before  its  noon  thy  little  day  w^as  done  ; 

The  gain  was  thine — the  loss,  the  anguish  ours. 
But  while  stem  duties  urge  my  footsteps  on, 

And  lonely,  weary  days  their  cares  repeat, 
Immortal  Hope  stands  pointing  to  the  dawn 

Of  that  to-morrow  when  our  souls  shall  meet 
On  some  bright  plain. 


Sometimes  I  seem  to  hear  thy  baby  feet 

Making  the  old,  sweet  music  on  the  floor, 
Or  turn,  in  glad  expectancy,  to  greet 

Thy  face,  like  sunshine  stealing  through  the  door. 
Alas  !  that  face  is  cold  and  silent  now  ; 

On  the  pale  lips  there  is  no  life,  no  breath  ; 
White  blossoms,  wreathed  around  thy  marble  brow. 

Crown  thee,  O  m}-  fair  child  I  the  bride  of  death. 
Ah !  bitter  pain. 

89 


OUR  TETIE. 

I  call  thee  by  the  pet  name,  fond  and  dear, 

That  bore  such  tender  meaning  to  thy  heart : 
Even  this  voice  of  love  thou  canst  not  hear. 

In  such  short  time  are  we  so  far  apart? 
Is  it  a  long,  long  way  to  thy  new  home 

Beyond  the  skies,  the  stars,  the  worlds  we  see? 
Then  rest  thee,  darling,  if  thou  canst  not  come ; 

Through  all  that  distance  I  will  go  to  thee. 
Wait,  Tctie,  wait, 

Wait  for  me ;  I  am  coming,  coming  fast ; 

Each  fleeting  moment  bears  me  on  my  way ; 
These  trembling  pulses  soon  will  beat  their  last ; 

Nor  would  I  ask  of  Heaven  an  hour's  delay. 
Come  down  and  meet  me  on  the  other  shore ; 

I  will  be  with  thee  soon,  by  God's  good  grace ;. 
And  when  the  struggle  and  the  strife  are  o'er. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  take  me  to  thine  embrace. 
Wait,  darling,  wait. 


90 


-~^h 


-s 


^2|•0]V[IIY♦^;'I^W0p^N.*^ 


'NLY  a  woman,  the  live  night  long, 

Beating  the  air  with  her  wasted  hands, 
And  telling  a  story  of  cruel  wrong, 
That  nobody  heeds  or  understands. 


Jjj      Only  a  woman,  without  a  friend 

To    soothe    her   sorrow   for   friendship's 
sake — 
Whom  few  will  pity,  and  none  defend  ; 
What  matter,   then,  if  her  heart  should 
break  ? 


There  is  nothing  new  in  her  w^oe  and  wail ; 

There  is   nothing   strange    in    her   bitter 
tears  ; 
And  the  tale  she  tells  is  an  old,  old  tale. 

The  world  has  heard  for  a  thousand  years. 


9^ 


ONLY  A  WOMAN. 

Only  a  woman,  with  wild,  blue  e3'es, 

Looking  for  something  beyond  her  sight, 

And  saying  from  dawn  till  daylight  dies  : 

''  He  will  come — he  will  sm-ely  come  to-night." 


He  promised  to  wed  her — the  day  \^  as  set, 
And  the  trousseau  laid  on  the  bridal  bed, 

But  the  day  is  past — did  he  forget 

The  appointed  time?     Is  he  ill,  or  dead? 

Nay,  he  is  away  over  land  and  sea, 

From  the  love  he  won,  and  the  wreck  he  left 

He  has  not  forgotten — but  what  cares  he 
For  a  broken  vow,  to  a  mined  weft? 

True,  she  was  happ}-  and  well  to  do. 
In  her  humble  home  and  honest  fame, 

Till  the  luckless  da}-  he  came  to  woo 

The  love  that  cankered  to  sin  and  shame. 

But  he  is  Patrician — born  and  bred 

In  the  regal  purple  of  wealth  and  place ; 

It  was  only  his  right  he  thought,  and  said, 
"To  kiss  the  bloom  from  a  fair,  sweet  face." 

Was  his  the  fault  that  she  loved  too  well  ? 

Was  he  to  blame  for  her  foolish  trust? 
The  record  they  kcvp  in  Heaven  will  tell ; 

And  the  day  \\\\\  conn-,  lor  God  is  just. 
92 


ONLY  A  WOMAN. 

He  moves  serene  in  his  orbit  now 

With  his  ways  and  words  so  sweet  and  bland- 
No  visible  mark  on  his  lofty  brow, 

No  stain  of  blood  on  his  soft,  white  hand. 

Does  he  ever  think  of  the  idyl,  read 
That  summer  time,  in  a  fairy  bower? 

Does  he  ever  regret  the  careless  tread. 

That  crushed  the  heart  of  a  wayside  flower? 

No  matter — the  ^-ears  will  come  and  go  ; 

Her  heart  will  bleed  and  her  eyes  grow  dim  ; 
And,  although  "the  mills  of  God  grind  slow,'^ 

They  are  grinding  a  fearful  grist  for  him. 

Beech  Bank,  March  7,  1874. 


93 


-II-60IN6 -Down -THE  :Piiiii.3i«" 


JOURNEY  slowly  down  the  hill, 
Whereon  the  sunshine  lingers  still — 
As  one  who  goes  against  his  will. 

The  vale  below  is  dark  and  cold, 
And  fraught  with  mysteries  untold. 
Concealed  beneath  the  green-grown  mold. 

The  sluggish  air  is  never  stirred 
B}^  hum  of  bee  or  trill  of  bird. 
Or  human  voice,  in  song  or  word. 

The  world  goes  on,  or  foul  or  fair, 
But  brings  of  all  its  joy  and  care 
No  tidings  to  the  sleepers  there. 

94 


GOING   DOWN  THE   HILL. 

They  make  no  moan,  they  shed  no  tears, 
They  have  no  aims,  no  hopes,  no  fears. 
No  memory  of  the  by-gone  years. 

They  have  no  Hght  of  sun  or  moon ; 
No  morning,  eventide  or  noon  ; 
No  need  of  scrip  or  sandal-shoon. 

Therefore,  I  journey  down  the  hill. 
Toward  the  valley,  dark  and  still, 
As  one  who  goes  against  his  will. 

Faith  says  :     O  mortal !  cease  thy  wail, 
And  look  beyond  the  shadowy  vale. 
Where  lie  the  sleepers  cold  and  pale. 

Beyond  the  realm  of  death  and  night — 
Beyond  thy  feeble  human  sight, 
There  is  a  world  of  life  and  light. 

The  blessed  dead,  whom  men  deplore. 
Are  living  on  that  radiant  shore — 
They  only  left  the  robes  the}^  wore. 

''  He  who  believes  on  me,"  He  said, 
Whose  precious  blood  for  man  was  shed, 
"  Shall  live  again,  though  he  were  dead." 

*'  O  Faith  I  "  I  cried,  *'  though  thou  canst  see 

The  glories  of  the  life  to  be, 

Death  stands  between  its  light  and  me." 

Indianapolis,  March  12,  1874. 

95 


C? A 


^jf^E-fPE^TIIiENOE.JH- 


|RIME  minister  of  Death  !  mysterious,  dread  ! 
We  can  not  see  thy  haggard  form  and 
face, 
We  do  not  feel  thy  breath,  nor  hear  thy 
tread,     " 
Nor  know  the   secrets   of   thy  dwelling 
place. 
We  tremble  at  thy  name,  and  weeping,  trace 
Thy  footsteps  by  the  victims  left  behind  ; 
Yet,  have  no  power  to  stay  thee  in  thy  race. 
As  well  might  puny  mortals  hope  to  bind 
The  lightning's  flaming  wing,  or  chain  the 
wandering  wind. 

By  many  a  hearth,  where  light  to  joy  were 
shed 
From  sunny  eyes  and  young  hearts  glad 
and  free, 

96 


THE   PESTILENCE. 

The  last,  lone  mourner  watches  by  her  dead. 

Spirit  of  outer  darkness  !  can  it  be 
That  human  woe  and  wail  delighteth  thee? 

Art  pleased  to  see  the  burning  tear-drops  start ; 
To  wring  the  changes  on  pale  agony, 

And  rend  the  fondest  ties  of  love  apart? 
Ah,  foulest  fiend  of  hell,  how  pitiless  thou  art  I 

Grave-digger  of  the  nations  !  though  thy  power 

Baffles  our  human  knowledge,  yet  we  know 
Though  hast  all  lands,  all  oceans  for  thy  dower. 

Youth,  hoary  age,  fair  childhood,  friend  and  foe, 
Beauty  and  bravery,  feel  alike  the  blow 

They  have  no  strength  to  ward,  no  time  to  shun. 
The  shriek  of  anguish  and  the  wail  of  woe, 

From  tropic  climes,  where  first  thy  work  begun, 
Will  follow  thy  drear  path  till  time's  last  setting  sun. 

Hovel  and  homestead,  hut  and  lordly  dome 

Are  thine,  all  thine,  if  human  hearts  are  there. 
Wan  twilight  finds  thee  in  the  quiet  home. 

Moving  unseen  amidst  the  young  and  fair. 
Bright  morning  sees  the  anguish,  the  despair 

Of  dear  ones  parting — some  from  all  the  fears 
And  hopes  of  life ;  some  to  live  on  and  bear 

All  bitter  memories  and  burning  tears. 
And  loneliness  of  heart,  through  many  weary  years. 

The  land  is  desolate  that  thou  hast  sown 
With  death  and  sorrow,  ruin  and  decay. 

97  b-i 


THE  PESTILENCE. 

The  air  of  heaven  is  sick  with  grief  and  moan, 

Where  thy  grim  shadow  hides  the  light  of  day. 
Surely  the  Lord,  our  God,  wall  bid  thee  stay. 

From  East  to  West,  men  joined  in  Christian  bands, 
With  one  accord,  for  this  devoutly  pray. 
And  all  the  noblest,  best  of  many  lands. 
Stretch  to  the  suffering  South  well-filled  and  generous 
hands. 

Our  minds  are  all  too  finite  to  conceive 

And  comprehend  God's  purpose  and  intent, 
But  we  can  trust  His  goodness  and  believe 

That  he  permitted  thee  in  mercy  meant 
To  teach  rebellious  nations  to  repent ; 

And  w^hen  life  reaps  the  harvest  death  has  sown, 
When  the  full  measure  of  time's  years  is  spent, 

And  all  the  secrets  of  God's  love  made  knownn, 
Thy  mission  will  be  read  before  the  eternal  throne. 

Indianapolis,  September,  1878. 


^^' 


98 


^l|*TpE^D0CT3R'g-f^T0^Y.$<- 


dead  of  night,  I  was  called  from  bed 
To  a  place  where  sin  had  made  its  lair; 

The  hastv  messenorer  only  said : 
"A  woman  is  dying  there." 


A  dance  house  down  in  a  dismal  row, 

Haunted  and  kept  by  the  low  and  yile. 
Where  the  free  winds  neyer  come  and  go, 
Nor  a  sunbeam  deigns  to  smile. 

To  the  blare  of  music,  rose  and  fell 

The  mirth  of  the  dancers,  wild  and  loud. 
And  the  air  was  yexed  as  the  smoke  of  hell 
Went  up  from  that  reeling  crowd. 


I  followed  my  guide  from  stair  to  stair. 
Where  blood-stained  hands  had  left  their 
trace, 
And  night   lamps   burned  with  a  ghastly- 
glare. 
In  the  gloom  of  the  haunted  place. 
99 


THE   DOCTOR'S   STORY. 

'*That  is  the  room,  sir,"  he  curtly  said, 

*'  Where  the  woman  lies  ;  you  may  hear  her  moan." 
And  I  found  her  there,  on  a  wretched  bed, 
Gasping  for  breath  and  alone. 

A  delicate  woman,  still  young  and  fair. 

Ruined  and  wrecked  on  the  world's  cold  strand, 
With  a  queenly  brow,  long  golden  hair, 
And  a  dainty,  dimpled  hand. 

•/ 

Her  cheeks  were  stained  with  a  hectic  glow. 

Her  eyes  aflame  with  a  strange,  wild  light ; 
*  Doctor,'  she  said,  *  I  am  very  low  ; 

Do  you  think  I  shall  die  to-night  ?' 

**Ah,  yes,"  she  added,  *'you  come  too  late; 

My  desolate  life  is  ebbing  fast ; 
I  have  drained  the  dregs  of  a  cruel  fate, 
But  the  horror  will  soon  be  past. 

"  I  was  not  always  the  loathsome  thing 

That  good  men  pity  and  women  shun ; 
My  life  was  bright  in  its  hopeful  spring — 
Too  bright  for  the  goal  it  won. 

**  IVe  sown  the  whirlwind,  and  garnered  tears, 

I  have  stained  my  path  with,  sin  and  crime ; 
And,  to  me  it  socins  a  thousand  years 
Since  the  da)'s  of  a  better  time. 

lOO 


THE   DOCTOR'S   STORY. 

*' When  or  whence  the  betrayer  came, 

It  matters  little,  nor  need  I  tell 
Of  his  high  position  and  sounding  name ; 
'Tis  enough  that  I  loved  him  well. 

*'  Loved — nay,  worshipped  the  ground  he  trod, 

And,  never  waiting  to  count  the  cost. 
Followed  my  idol,  forgetting  God, 

And  worshipped  till  all  was  lost. 

*'  He  left  me  degraded,  friendless,  poor. 

Blighted,  and  banned  without  and  within ; 
I  dared  not  enter  a  good  man's  door. 
And  was  lost  in  a  den  of  sin . 


*'  I  tried  to  bury  remorse  and  shame  ; 

But,  under  the  mask  of  my  soul's  disguise, 
Still  felt  the  unquenchable  fire  and  flame 
0{  the  w^orm  that  never  dies. 

I 

**  Loathing,  abhorring  the  life  I  led. 

My  every  smile  was  a  heartless  lie ; 

But  the  world  refused  me  honest  bread, 

And,  alas,  I  could  not  die. 

**  But  once  I  stood  in  the  driving  snow. 

Famished  and  faint,  on  a  winter  night, 
And  looked  through  a  window,  all  aglow, 
Into  a  boudoir  warm  and  bright. 

lOI 


THE   DOCTOR^S   STORY. 

**And  there,  at  home,  with  his  child  and  wife. 

In  'broidered  slippers  and  velvet  gown, 
Was  the  man  that  blighted  my  heart  and  life. 
And  cast  me  adrift  on  the  town. 


**  Many  a  time,  in  my  guilt  and  pain, 
As  the  bitter  years  of  life  went  by,. 
I  said,  '  If  ever  we  meet  again. 

The  coward,  betrayer,  shall  die.' 

"  And  there,  alone  with  my  aching  heart, 

A  homeless  waif,  on  the  cold,  bleak  street, 
I  said,  '  O  perjured,  though  long  apart. 

We  have  met,  and  revenge  is  sweet.' 

**  I  raised  my  hand  with  a  steady  aim. 

But,  O  thank  Heaven,  ere  the  bullet  sped, 
A  better  thought  to  the  rescue  came — 

Dizzy  and  blind,  I  turned  and  fled. 

**  Fled  from  the  sight  of  that  splendid  room, 

With  its  wealth  and  warmth  and  golden  light. 
Through  the  bitter  storm  and  starless  gloom, 
To  the  pitiless  heart  of  night. 

•**  Fainting,  I  fell  on  the  frozen  ground. 
And  awhile  forgot  all  pain  and  strife. 
But  a  watchman  found  me  on  his  round. 
And  tortured  me  back  to  life., 

I02 


THE   DOCTORS    STORY. 

**  O,  the  rest  of  that  dreamless  sleep 

To  my  bleeding  heart  and  burning  brain ; 
To  the  eyes  that  only  wake  to  weep — 
Will  it  ever  come  again?" 

I  answered:     "Yes,  there  is  rest  alway 
For  the  penitent  soul  at  Mercy's  door ; 
The  Savior  of  sinners  says,  to-day, 

To  the  guilty,  'Go  and  sin  no  more.'  " 

*' Alas,"  she  murmured,  "  I  dare  not  pray  ; 

My  doom  is  written  ;  it  is  too  late  ! 
O,  that  my  soul  could  steal  away. 

And  hide  from  God  and  human  hate." 

At  length  she  slept ;  and  I  w^ent  my  way 

From  the  loathsome  place,  in  the  dreary  dawn, 
By  the  drunken  gamblers,  still  at  play, 
And  the  dancers  reeling  on. 

The  world  went  'round,  with  its  throbs  and  throes. 

Its  pride  of  place  and  its  greed  of  gold. 
Till  I  had  forgotten  that  sick  girl's  woes. 
And  the  stor}^  her  white  lips  told. 

And  then,  by  chance,  I  met' her  again. 

In  a  home  where  peace  and  love  abide  ; 
Clothed  and  redeemed  from  her  guilt  and  stain, 
By  the  blood  of  the  Crucified. 
103 


THE   DOCTOR'S   STORY. 

There,  saved  in  the  Blessed  Shepherd's  fold, 

Counting  all  earthl}^  gain  but  loss ; 
Like  Mary,  the  Magdelen  of  old. 

She  wept  by  the  Savior's  cross. 

%. 

"  Thank  God,"  I  said,  ''  that  we  may  bring 

To  Him,  the  harvest  love  has  crowned. 
And  join  the  anthem  angels  sing. 

In  heaven,  when  the  lost  is  found." 


104 


^^^N*^J^0aR^IN*^JlII^.'^C0^'?^^TODI0. 


jH^"" 


J^ 


I   dreaiy   day  in  winter,   when   the  wind 

with  cold  was  crying; 
When  the  Frost  King,  from  his  palace, 

rode  adown  the  crisped  air ; 
When  the  drifted  snow  in   hillocks  on  the 

frozen  ground  was  lying, 
And  the   maples   and   the  beaches  stood 

shi\'ering  brown  and  bare  ; 

In  the  great  heart  of  the  city,  walled  about 
with  brick  and  mortar, 
I  found  a  bower  of  beauty  where  stern 
winter  was  denied  ; 
And  from  all  life's  fret  and  worry  gave  my 
soul  an  hour  to  loiter. 
And  away  she  gayly  flitted,  taking  Fancy 
for  her  guide. 

105 


AN   HOUR   IN  MR.   COX'S   STUDIO. 

Aye,   away  by  blooming   hedges,    and   green   meadows 
starred  with  daisies ; 
By  granite  cliffs,  where  lichens  hung  their  crimson  ban- 
ners gay ; 
By  shadowy  dells  and  dingles,  floored  with  mosses,  hung 
with  hazes, 
Where   the   fragrant   water  lilies  bathe  their  faces  in 
bright  spray. 

Then,  through  woodland  paths  and  bridges,  to  a  cottage 
quaint  and  cosy. 
Embowered  in  odorous  eglantine,  from  rustic  porch  to 
eaves ; 
By  fields  where  youths  and  maidens,  with  bright  faces 
round  and  rosy, 
Raked  the  hay  with  merr}'  singing,  or  bound  the  golden 
sheaves. 

Thence  she  wandered  down  broad  valleys,  to  the  feet  of 
snow-capp'd  mountains ; 
Rested  in  the  cool,  green  shadows  of  gigantic  forest 
trees; 
Sailed  along  bright,  winding  rivers,  caught  the  sparkle  of 
glad  fountains. 
And  saw  the  sunset-crimson  burn  along  the   summer 
seas. 

Then  away  to  classic  Rhineland,  to  a  i*uin  grand  and 
hoary, 
Where  sculptured  frieze  and  peristyle  met  their  myste- 
rious fate ; 

io6 


AN   HOUR   IN   MR.    COX'S   STUDIO. 

Where   mouldering   aisles    and    arches    whisper  many  a 
stirring  story, 
Of  knightly  men  and  women  fair,  pomp,  pageantry  and 
state. 

Vines  and  many-colored  grasses  trailed  bright  leaves  and 
blossoms  tender, 
Along  its  broken  arches,  ruined  wall  and  colonnade, 
And  instead  of  princes,  courtiers,  coming,  going  in  their 
splendor, 
A  few  poor  peasants  rested  with  their  flocks  beneath  its 
shade. 

And  my  truant  soul,   forgetting  all  the  lore  of   sterner 
duty — 
All  the  past,  and  all  the  future,  in  her  dreaming  wan- 
dered on  ; 
Wandered  on,  enrapt,  enchanted,  in  this  new-found  w^orld 
of  beauty. 
Till  common  cares  recalled  her,  when  the  little  hour  w^as 
gone. 

And,   although   her  wings  w^ere  folded,   she  was  richer, 
w^iser,  better. 
And  stronger  for  life's  pathway,  through  the  frost  and 
through  the  snow  ; 
And  whatever  may  befall  her,  till  she  breaks  life's  mortal 
fetter, 
She  will  not  forget  that  journey  in  the  artist's  studio. 

iNDIANAPOl.iS,    JlNE,    j868. 


^^- 


•|^^^IiP-fli^]V[D.$<- 


STOOD    upon    the    Wengern     Alp     and 
dreamed, 
One  starry  midnight  in  the  autumn  time, 
Till,  soul   and  sense  entranced,  I  saw,  or 
seemed 
To  see,  a  new,  strange  world,  before  the 

grime 
Of  age  had   dimmed  the  wonder  of  its 
prime : 
Snows,  glaciers,  Alps,  around,  above,  be- 
neath— 
Strength,  beauty,  grander,  awful  and  sub- 
lime, 
Where  never  human  footstep,  human  breath, 
Disturbed  the  rule  and  reign  of  everJasting 

death. 

3o8 


ALP-LAND. 

There  was  old  Schreckhorn,  with  his  hoary  brow, 

The  white-cowled  Monk,  great  Eigher,  seamed  with 
scars, 

And,  loftiest  of  all,  the  pure  Jungfrau, 

Like  a  veiled  vestal  crowned  with  burning  stars 

.    By  the  high  walls  of  heaven  ;  shining  bars 

Of  golden  moonlight  bound  her  zone,  and  where 
Clouds  floated  idly  in  their  pale  simars, 

Her  gorgeous  robe,  like  ermine  rich  and  rare, 

Fell  in  colossal  folds  adown  the  purple  air. 

In  the  unfathomed  caverns,  far  below. 

The  wandering  winds  sung  anthems  wild  and  sweet, 
x\nd  torrents,  new-born  of  the  virgin  snow. 

Mingled  their  many  voices,  like  the  beat 

Of  mighty  pulses,  or  the  fall  of  feet 
That  found  no  rest.     Anon  the  avalanche,  riven 

From  its  high  home,  fell  thundering,  far  and  fleet, 
Like  some  rebellious  host  that  God  had  driven 
Down,  down  to  the  abyss,  from  the  far  fields  of  Heaven. 

Again,  and  nearer,  that  deep,  fearful  sound 

Lifted  its  clamor  to  the  vaulted  sky. 
Hissed  in  the  air  and  groaned  along  the  ground. 

Waking  ten  thousand  echoes  in  reply. 

The  roar  of  cannon,  rattling  musketry. 
Seemed  blended  and  repeated,  o'er  and  o'er, 

From  hidden  fosse  and  cloud-capped  battery ; 
As  if  the  Titans,  mighty  as  of  yore. 
Did  battle  with  the  gods  on  the  invisible  shore. 

109 


ALP-LAND. 

And  so  the  hours  wore  on,  and  stole  awa}^ 

The  silver  starlight  from  the  brow  of  night ; 
A  sudden  shining  heralded  the  day, 

And  the  pale  Alps  blushed  in  the  dawning  light. 

A  crimson  curtain  fringed  with  pearly  white. 
Slowly  above  the  gray  horizon  rose, 

Slowly  the  slopes  and  frozen  seas  grew  bright, 
But  day  was  drraving  midway  to  its  close 
Ere  the  great  sun  climbed  up  to  that  lone  land  of  snows. 


He  scaled  the  eternal  ramparts,  length  by  length — 

O'er  bastion,  parapet  and  tower  he  came, 
Like  a  bold  warrior,  glorious  in  his  strength, 

With  a  red  banner  and  a  crown  of  flame. 

He  looked  upon  the  snows,  and  they  became 
Inlaid  with  diamonds,  dazzling  human  eyes 

With  a  great  glor}-  that  no  tongue  can  name ; 
As  though  some  angel,  passing  in  the  skies, 
Had  opened  suddenly  the  gates  of  Paradise, 


Eternal  Alps  !  in  your  sublime  abode 

The  soul  goes  forth  untrammeled,  and  apart 
From  little  self,  expands  and  learns  of  God. 

There  it  forgets  awhile  the  busy  mart 

Where  strength,  heart,  life,  are  coined  with  cunning  art 
To  common  currency  :  forgets  the  strife 

For  gold,  place,  power  and  fame — the  bitter  smart 
Of  disappointment,  pain  and  sorrow  rife, 
Where  poor  humanity  walks  in  the  paths  of  life. 

no 


ALP-LAND. 

Ye  are  unsullied  by  the  serpent's  trail 

Of  sin  and  death,  with  all  their  weary  woes, 

And  ye  do  minister  within  the  veil 
Of  an  eternity  that  never  knows 
The  changes  of  decay.     Time  overthrows 

Man's  proudest  glory,  but  his  hand  has  striven 
In  vain  to  mar  your  beauty.     As  ye  rose 

When  form  and  light  to  the  young  earth  were  given, 

Ye  stand  with  your  white  brows  by  the  closed  gates  of 
heaven. 

Indianapolis,  1863. 


ril 


@ J^ 


v^ 


Te^P^^Y.W 


;ARY,  it  is  many  a  day  since  we  sat  together 
On   the    lawn    of    '' While- A  way,"  in   the 
Autumn  weather. 

Oaks  were  putting  crimson  on  down  the 

forest  reaches, 
Maples  wore  a  golden  zone,  russet-brown 

the  beeches. 

Mists  above  the  river  hung ;   clouds  went 

trailing  slower ; 
Meadow  streamlets  sighed  and  sung  sadder 

songs  and  lower. 


Daffodils  were  dead   and  gone — gone  the 

odorous  gillies ; 
Frost  had  set  his  signet  on  the  roses  and  the 

lilies. 


oMiss  Mary  E.  Smith,  New  Albany 
112 


TO   MARY. 

Mignonette  and  heliotrope,  half  their  bloom  departed, 
Blessed   the    air,   as    Faith  and   Hope  bless  the  weary- 
hearted. 

Day  was  crowned  with  purple  light,  eve  with  shadows 

tender. 
And  the  full  moon  rose  at  night  in  a  crimson  splendor. 

Summer's  silver-throated  guests  to  the  Southland  hying, 
Left   behind  their   empty  nests   where   the    winds   were 
sighing. 

Katydids,  all  summer  dumb,  'plained  their  story  over ; 
Dusky  bees,  with  drowsy  hum,  droned  among  the  clover. 

Leaves  kept  dropping,  all  day  long,  from  the  trees  that 

bore  them. 
Driven  by  the  winds  that  sung  May-day  songs  before 

them. 


//. 


Now  the  gentle  spring  has  come,  from  the  tropic  bowers. 
With  her  fragrance,  beauty,  bloom,  sunshine,  song  and 
showers. 

Decorating  shrub  and  tree,  weaving  flowers  and  grasses 
Into  bright  embroider}-  wheresoe'er  she  passes. 

Bird  and  bee  the  livelong  day,  full  of  life  and  pleasure, 
Thank  the  Lord,  as  well  they  may,  in  a  merry  measure. 

113  6-8 


TO   MARY. 

Hawthorns  flaunt  in  robes  of  snow,  in  tassels  green  the 

larches, 
Red-buds  kindle  up  a  glow  in  the  wildwood  arches. 

Buckeyes  starred  with  paly  gold,  willows  pranked  with 

fringes ; 
Aspens  trembling  to  uphold  leaves  with  silver  tinges. 

Wavelets  dancing  on  their  way,  tremulous  with  laughter. 
Tossing  wreathes  of  diamond  spray  to  those  coming  after. 

Softly  sinks  the  setting  sun,  wrapped  in  golden  hazes ; 
Merrily  the  south  winds  mn,  kissing  all  the  daisies. 

Seven  months  have  gone  their  ways,  with  their  cares  and 

sorrows — 
With  their  weary  yesterdays,  and  their  bright  to-morrows. 

O,  what  were  their  gifts  to  thee,  gentle-hearted  maiden? 
Have  they  left  thee  fancy-free,  or  spellbound  in  love's 
•  Aidenn? 

Have  they  left  thee  free  from  scath,  happy  as  they  found 

thee— 
Morning's   sunshine   on   thy  path,   Hope's  fair  rainbow 

round  thee? 

Treading    perfume    from    the    flowers,    weaving    grand 

romances, 
Winging  all  the  voiceless  hours  with  delicious  fancies? 

114 


TO   MARY. 

Time  is  kind  to  such  as  thou,  touching  with  Hght  fingers 
Rosy  lips  and  sunny  brow,  smiling  while  he  lingers. 

May  thy  path  be  ever  bright,  bright  the  sky  above  thee ; 
May  Heaven  bless  thee  day  and  night,  and   all  its  angels 
love  thee. 


115 


^^^EYE]VW-f0]V[E.3l€<- 


dead  of  night,  on  a  haunted  height, 
Wierd  spirits  sung, 
*'Time  is  old  and  Time  is  young." 
Naiads  and  Undines,  fresh  and  fair. 
With  bright  sea-pearls  in  their  golden  hair ; 
Gnomes  and  Satyrs,  grim  and  gray. 
Brownies  wrinkled  and  Fairies  gay, 
All  together  in  chorus  sung ; 
''  Time  is  old  and  Time  is  young  I " 
Till  arch  and  aisle  in  Cloudland  rung : 
"Time  is  old  and  Time  is  young !  " 
Then  all  the  brazen  bells  below 
Went  reeling,  rollicking  to  and  fro. 

And  every  one,  with  its  iron  tongue. 
Said  or  sung : 

**  Time  is  old  and  Time  is  young  I 
Young,  young,  young,  young. 
Time  is  old  and  Time  is  young !" 

Tl6 


SEVENTY-ONE. 

And  the  new-born  year,  on  pinions  light, 

Flitted  over  the  shores  of  night ; 

Ov^er  the  dreary  Arctic  land, 

Over  the  tropics  bright  and  bland. 

Over  the  mountains,  over  the  sea, 

Swift  as  a  meteor's  flash  went  he — 

Lightly  touching  all  earthly  things 

With  the  viewless  tips  of  his  mystic  wings. 

But  all  the  life  in  his  heart  congealed, 

His  sight  grew  dim  and  his  sensed  reeled, 

When  he  came  to  a  new-fought  battlefield. 

The  waves  of  a  river  ran  blood-red, 

And  the  ground  was  covered  with  ghastly  dead, 

Lying  in  heaps  where  they  fought  and  fell, 

Mangled  and  torn  by  shot  and  shell. 

In  the  fire  and  hail  of  the  battle's  hell. 

Here  was  a  tnmk  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
Trampled  down  in  the  seething  sod ; 

There  a  head  with  the  lips  apart, 
As  the  dying  groan  went  up  to  the  throne 
Of  a  pitying  God. 

Here  was  a  foot  with  a  silver  spur. 
And  there  on  the  sand  a  milk-white  hand 
With  the  troth-plight  ring  of  a  lady  dear. 
Alas  I  for  the  pain,  so  bitter  and  vain. 
Of  her  who  will  clasp  it  never  again. 

Alas,  and  alas,  for  her  I 
*' What  horror  is  this  ?"  asked  the  startled  year 
Of  a  soldier  digging  a  grave-trench  near. 
"  Only  a  sortie,"  the  soldier  said  ; 
''They  left  us,  you  see,  to  bury  the  dead." 
117 


SEVENTY-ONE. 

*'  But  what  is  the  cause  of  this  terrible  war? 

What  are  the  nations  fighting  for?" 

Dropping  his  pickaxe,  after  a  pause, 

The  man  repHed  :     ''  Well,  as  to  the  cause, 

It  was,  I  think,  some  offensive  thing 

The  Emperor  said  to  our  Pmssian  king." 

Then  lighting  his  pipe  and  singing  a  stave. 

He  picked  away  at  the  long,  deep  grave. 

*'  Small  cause  for  all  this  terrible  strife. 

This  waste  of  treasure  and  this  waste  of  life," 

Mused  Seventy-one. 
**  Small  cause  for  woe,  and  wail,  and  tears. 
And  blighted  lands  for  scores  of  years ; 
For  all  the  suffering  and  despair 
That  human  hearts  can  feel  and  bear 

Beneath  the  sun. 
But  'whether  the  cause  be  foul  or  just. 

This  strain  and  struggle  may  rend  apart 
The  fetters  and  chains  that  rankle  and  rust 

To  the  core  of  the  Old  World's  heart. 
No  matter  what  crowns  are  won  or  lost. 
The  fire  and  flame  of  the  holocaust 

May  bring  a  nobler  birth — 
May  hasten  the  time  when  czars  and  kings, 
Kaisers  and  princes,  and  all  such  things. 

Shall  find  no  place  on  the  earth." 

Elm-Croft,  January,  1871. 


118 


120 


^IlEFT  V8N  :TPE  vB^T5^l£EFIEIiD.> 


;HAT  :     Was  it  a  dream?     Am  I  all  alone 
In  thedrear^^  night  and  the  drizzling  rain? 
Hist  I — ah,  it  was  only  the  river's  moan  ; 
They    have    left    me    behind,    with    the 
mangled  slain. 

f     Yes,  now  I  remember  it  all  too  well  I 

We  met  from  the  battling  ranks  apart ; 
Together  our  weapons  flashed  and  fell, 
And  mine  was  sheathed  in  his  quivering 
heart. 


In  the  cypress  gloom,  where  the  deed  was 
done. 

It  was  all  too  dark  to  see  his  face ; 
But  I  heard  his  death-groans,  one  by  one, 

And  he  holds  me  still  in  a  cold  embrace. 


121 


LEFT  ON  THE   BATTLEFIELD. 

He  spoke  but  once,  and  I  could  not  hear 
The  words  he  said  for  the  cannon's  roar ; 

But  my  heart  grew  cold  with  a  deadly  fear : 
O  God  !  I  had  heard  that  voice  before  I 


Had  heard  it  before  at  our  mother's  knee, 

When  we  lisped  the  words  of  our  evening  prayer ! 

My  brother ! — would  I  had  died  for  thee  ! 
This  burden  is  more  than  my  soul  can  bear ! 

I  pressed  m}^  lips  to  his  death-cold  cheek. 

And  begged  him  to  show  me,  by  word  or  sign. 

That  he  knew  and  forgave  me.     He  could  not  speak, 
But  he  nestled  his  poor,  cold  face  to  mine. 

The  blood  flowed  fast  from  my  wounded  side, 
And  then  for  awhile  I  forgot  my  pain, 

And  over  the  lakelet  we  seemed  to  glide 
In  our  little  boat,  two  boys  again. 

And  then,  in  my  dream,  we  stood  alone 
On  a  forest  path,  where  the  shadows  fell ; 

And  I  heard  again  the  tremulous  tone 

And  the  tender  words  of  his  last  farewell. 

But  that  parting  was  years,  long  years  ago : 
He  wandered  away  to  a  foreign  land. 

And  our  dear  old  mother  will  never  know 
That  he  died  to-night  by  his  brother's  hand. 

122 


LEFT   ON   THE   BATTLEFIELD. 


The  soldiers,  who  buried  the  dead  away, 

Disturbed  not  the  clasp  of  that  last  embrace, 
But  laid  them  to  sleep  till  the  judgment  day, 

Heart  folded  to  heart,  and  face  to  face. 

» 

Indianapolis    1863. 


123 


^^3p^IN6.31«^ 


^HE  young  queen  is  coming, 

With  piping  and  drumming, 
Is  coming  this  way  in  her  kingdom  again ; 
With  laughter  and  singing. 
And  fair}''  bells  ringing, 
And   all   the   gay  courtiers  that   follow  her 
train. 

The  lowlands  and  highlands, 
The  sea-coasts  and  islands 
Are   donning  their  jewels   and   mantles    of 
green  ; 
And  bright  waters  meeting. 
Advancing,  retreating. 
Are    gladly    repeating,    "All    hail    to    the 
queen ! '' 
124 


SPRING.  . 

The  blue  sky  is  smiling. 

The  warm  sun  beguiling 
The  spirit  of  life  from  the  chambers  of  gloom ; 

And  timid  young  flowers, 

In  hedges  and  bowers, 
Respond  to  his  kisses  with  fragrance  and  bloom. 


Wee,  brown  buds  peep  over 

Their  winter-time  cover, 
To  find  themselves  wrapt  in  a  soft,  golden  sheen. 

And  tenderly  flushing. 

Unfolding  and  blushing. 
Lay  all  their  sweet  wealth  at  the  feet  of  the  queen. 


Bright  cloudlets  are  sailing. 

Like  fairy  boats  trailing 
White  banners,  afar,  over  woodland  and  wold ; 

While  sunshine  and  shadow. 

On  hillside  and  meadow. 
Are  making  mosaics,  in  purple  and  gold. 


Sweet  south  winds  are  straying. 

Like  children  a-Maying, 
Where  wild  reeds  and  rushes  are  waving  their  plumes. 

And  gleanmg  from  edges 

Of  streamlets  and  sedges, 
From  thickets  and  ledges,  a  thousand  perfumes. 

1^5 


SPRING. 

The  ring-dove  is  cooing, 

The  red  robin  wooing, 
Or  building  his  nest  with-  a  business-like  mein  ; 

Araignee  beginning, 

Her  summer-long  spinning, 
And  myriads  of  voices  proclaiming  the  queen. 

April,  1876. 


126 


^if- 


^  JiIrs.  vf^;^r(Y  vfiil^ne^FinvFiiEJFcpEi^, 


i^ 


TO   THOSE   WHO    LOVED    HER. 


.— ^^=*3-g^i-. 


MOOTH  the  bands  of  her  silken  hair, 
On  her  queenly  brow  with  tender  care  ; 
Gather  the  robe  in  a  final  fold 
Around  the  form  that  will  not  grow  old ; 
Lay  on  her  bosom,  pure  as  snow, 
The  fairest,  sweetest  flowers  that  blow. 
Kiss  her  and  leave  her,  your  heart's  delight 
In  dreamless  peace  she  will  sleep  to-night. 

A  shadowy  gleam  of  life-light  lies 
Around  the  lids  of  her  slumberous  eyes, 
And  her  lips  are  closed  as  in  fond  delay 
Of  the  loving  words  she  had  to  say ; 
But  her  gentle  heart  forgets  to  beat, 
And  from  dainty  head  to  dainty  feet 
She  is  strangely  quiet,  cold  and  white  ; 
The  fever  is  gone — she  will  sleep  to-night. 
:.?>7 


MRS.    MARY   MALOTT   FLETCHER. 

Put  by  her  work  and  her  empty  chair ; 
Fold  up  the  garments  she  used  to  wear ; 
Let  down  the  curtains  and  close  the  door, 
She  will  need  the  garish  light  no  more ; 
For  the  task  assigned  her  under  the  sun 
Is  finished  now,  and  the  guerdon  won. 
Tenderly  kiss  her,  put  out  the  light, 
And  leave  her  alone — she  will  sleep  to-night. 

O,  blessed  sleep  !  that  will  not  break 

For  tears,  nor  prayers,  nor  for  love's  sweet  sake  ; 

O,  perfect  rest !  that  knows  no  pain, 

No  throb,  no  thrill  of  heart  or  brain ; 

O,  life  sublime  beyond  all  speech. 

That  only  the  pure  through  dying  reach  I 

God  understands  and  His  ways  are  right ; 

Bid  His  beloved  a  long  good-night. 

Weep  for  the  days  that  will  come  no  more, 
For  the  sunbeam  flown  from  hearth  and  door, 
For  a  missing  step,  for*  the  nameless  grace 
Of  a  tender  voice  and  a  loving  face ; 
But  not  for  the  soul  whose  goal  is  won, 
Whose  infinite  joy  is  just  begun — 
Not  for  the  spirit  enrobed  in  light, 
And  crowned  where  the  angels  are  to-night. 

Bbkch  Bank,  September,  1876. 


128 


7/  ^  w 


&^\v  - 


^^De^D.4:- 


}E  is  dead — so  men  said, 
fe^ .   ri^TH  J)     ^^^  they  bore  him  away  from  the  sun,  from 

the  da}^ 
To  his  chamber  of  rest — 
To   his   chamber    of   darkness    and 
rest 
By  the  shadow  that  Hes  on  his  hps,  on  his 

eyes  ; 
By  the  pallor  and  chill  of  his  hands  clasped 
and  still, 
They  knew  he  was  dead. 


But  the  soul,  the  quick  soul, 
That  could  move  and  control 
The  inanimate  clay  that  they  buried  away — 
The   Promethian   fire   that   did   reach  and 

aspire 
To  a  something  beyond,  something  holier 
and  higher, 
Has  gone  up  to  its  goal — 
To  the  beauty  and  joy  of  its  goal. 
1 29  d-9 


DEAD. 

It  is  free  ;  it  has  gone 

Through  the  paths  of  the  night,  through  the  gates  of  the 

dawn 

To  a  kingdom  and  crown, 

From  poverty,  moil,  disappointment  and  toil 

To  wealth  and  renown, 
From  the  dust,  from  the  mold,  from  darkness  and  cold, 
To  put  on  a  king's  raiment  of  purple  and  gold, 

To  inherit  a  crown. 

The  demon  Despair,  and  the  vulture  called  Care, 
Though  they  tortured  him  here,  can  not  follow  him  there ; 

He  is  safe  by  the  throne. 

And  never  again 
Can  a  pang  or  a  pain  wring  from  sick  heart  or  brain 

Sigh  or  moan. 

He  is  safe  by  the  throne. 

Ah !  how  littie  he  deems  this  poor  life,  with  its  dreams, 
Its  laughter,  its  crying,  ambitions  and  schemes, 
The  phantoms  that  lured  it,  the  tempest  that  tost, 
The  guerdons  it  won,  or  the  prizes  it  lost. 

As  he  stands  with  his  peers, 
Blood-washed   from   all   stain,  blood-redeemed  from  all 

tears, 
In  the  fullness  of  life  never  measured  by  years 

O  fair,  O  sublime 
Lies  the  land  far  away,  beyond  Death,  beyond  Time, 
To  which  he  has  gone. 
Human  feet  never  trod 
130 


DEAD. 

The  bright  paths  where  he  walks  with  the  angels  of  God. 
Human  heart  never  dreams  of  the  glory  that  beams 

From  the  crystalline  throne, 

Over  valleys  and  streams, 
Where  he  walks  with  the  angels  of  God. 

Canton,  April,  1866. 


131 


^^T^IiE-faE^Cp^PGUNI/ 


RANDMA,  I  have  hung  up  the  curtains. 
And  tacked  the  new  carpet  down, 

Made  fruit  cake  white  as  a  snow-drift, 
Sweet  crullers  and  crumpets  brown — 

Enough,  at  least,  for  the  Christmas  feast. 
When  the  dear  ones  come  from  town. 

There's  golden  cream  in  the  pantry, 
And  a  score  of  tarts  and  pies, 

And  every  limb  of  the  Christmas  tree 
Is  hung  with  a  tempting  prize ; 

I  can  almost  see  the  joy  and  glee 
In  the  happy  children's  eyes. 

Now,  grandma,  tell  me  a  story — 

A  stoiy,  weird  and  wild, 
Of  the  olden  days  when  you  were  young, 
132 


A  TALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

And  mother  a  little  child, 
With  her  voice  so  low  and  her  face  aglow, 
So  angel-sweet  and  mild. 

<<Ah,  Bettina,  I  was  dreaming 

That  I  heard  the  North  wind  blow 

Over  my  native  mountains, 
Over  the  fields  of  snow. 

As  I  heard  it  once  at  the  Christmas-tide, 
Full  many  a  year  ago. 

**  There  lived  in  a  little  chalet. 
At  the  foot  of  a  mountain  sheer, 

A  hale  young  man  and  blithesome  wife, 
Not  older  than  you,  my  dear. 

Ah,  that  was  a  notable  Christmas-tide ; 
That  was  a  notable  3'ear. 

*' Through  all  the  days  of  November, 

Never  a  shower  of  snow 
Crowned  the  brow  of  the  lower  Alps, 

And,  down  in  the  vales  below, 
The  grass  was  as  green,  in  shade  and  sheen. 

As  summer  grass  may  grow. 

*' '  Wife,'  Heinrich  said,  one  morning. 

As  cheery  and  bright  as  May, 
*  I  promised  to  hunt  the  chamois 

With  Conrad  and  Carl  to-day. 
Take  precious  care  of  the  baby  dear, 

I  shall  not  be  long  away.' 
133 


A  TALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

**  He  belted  his  blouse  around  him, 
Took  his  hunting-horn  and  gun, 

And  said  :     '  We  can  go  to  the  Jardin 
And  back,  ere  the  day  is  done.' 

Then  bent  his  head  o'er  the  cradle-bed, 
And  kissed  his  little  one. 

'* '  Nay,  love,'  his  good  wife  pleaded, 
'  It  is  late  to  hunt,  you  know, 

And  all  night  long  I  was  dreaming 
A  dream  that  betokened  woe . 

Put  up  your  gun  and  hunting-horn. 
And  say  you  will  not  go.' 

** '  Not  go?     The  boys  are  waiting, 
And,  for  shame,  I  could  not  say : 

My  wife  has  dreamed  of  trouble, 
And  I  can  not  go  to-day. 

Now,  give  me,  dear,  a  good-luck  cheer ; 
I  shall  not  be  long  away. 

**  'Take  care  of  my  little  Minnie. 

Adieu,'  and  he  was  gone. 
The  light  from  her  blue  eyes  faded. 

And  her  face  grew  gray  and  wan  : 
She  knew  full  well  why  the  shadow  fell, 

Ere  the  weary  day  was  gone. 

**She  waited  and  watched  the  mountains, 

Waited  and  watched  the  sun. 
And  when  the  clock,  on  the  mantelpiece 
134 


A  TALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

Rung  out  the  hour  of  one, 
The  sky  and  the  air  were  as  bright  and  fair 
As  when  the  day  begun. 

"  *  Oh,  why,'  she  sighed,  '  am  I  troubled? 

Whence  cometh  this  nameless  fear? 
Is  it  a  token  of  sorrow — 

A  warning  of  danger  near? 
Nay  ;  all  is  bright,  and  with  sunset  light 

My  Heinrich  will  be  here.' 

*'And  then  she  sung  to  the  baby 

That  prattled  upon  her  knee, 
A  quaint,  old  song,  of  a  sailor 

That  sailed  away  to  sea  ; 
Sailed  far  away  from  his  love  one  day, 

And  never  back  came  he. 

**  But  before  the  song  was  ended. 

The  wind  went  shrieking  by  ; 
A  shadow  fell  on  the  hearthstone, 

Fell  over  the  mountains  high. 
And  a  cloud  went  forth  from  the  dreary  North 

And  swept  the  light  from  the  sky. 

*' '  The  storm  I '  she  cried,  '  O  heaven  ! 

Ah,  this  is  my  dream  of  woe. 
It  is  dark  on  the  brow  of  the  Flegere, 

Dark  in  the  vale  below. 
O  God  I  provide,  protect  and  guide 

My  Heinrich  to-night  in  the  snow.' 
135 


A  TALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

**  Wilder  the  wind  went  wailing, 

Deeper  the  snowdrifts  fe'l, 
Heaping  the  heights  and  hollows, 

Leveling  dike  and  dell ; 
When  the  day  was  done,  or  the  night  begun, 

No  human  soul  could  tell. 

*'And  when  the  cold,  gray  morning 
Looked  down  on  the  dreary  scene, 

You  could  scarcely  see  a  landmark. 
Or  tell  where  one  had  been, 

For  trackless  snow  was  above  and  below, 
And  trackless  snow  between. 

*'  But  what  of  the  brave  young  hunters, 

Who  merrily  went  their  way, 
By  the  Mauvais-Pas  to  the  Jardin, 

That  sunny  yesterday  ? 
There  was  warmth  and  light  in  their  homes  that 
night, 

But  the  hunters — where  were  they? 

**A  wail  was  heard  in  the  village — 

A  piteous  wail,  and  then 
The  hardy  sons  of  the  mountains 

Went  forth  from  hill  and  glen, 
With  their  hunting  horns  and  alpenstocks, 

To  seek  the  missing  men. 

**Up  and  away  by  the  Boissons, 

Over  the  Mere  de  Glace, 
Down  in  the  dismal  gorges, 
■36 


A  TALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

Wherever  a  man  might  pass, 
You  could  hear  the  beat  of  their  mail-clad  feet- 
But  they  found  them  not,  alas ! 

**A11  through  the  night  and  the  darkness, 

With  many  a  torch  aflame. 
They  wound  their  horns  and  shouted, 

But  only  the  echoes  came 
From  hollow  and  hill  and  frozen  rill, 

Repeating  an  empty  name. 

*'At  length  they  returned  to  the  village 

With  slow,  uncertain  tread. 
And  the  bravest  man  among  them, 

In  trembling  accents  said  : 
*  We  have  done  our  best.     God  give  them  rest- 

For  surely  our  friends  are  dead  ! " 


*'The  days  keep  coming  and  going. 

However  we  joy  or  grieve. 
And  sometimes  what  they  take  away 

Is  less  than  what  they  leave ; 
So  twice  seven  days  went  on  their  ways, 

And  brought  the  Christmas  eve. 

**And  Gretchen,  alone  m  her  cottage, 
Was  sorrowing,  sad  and  sore, 

For  the  dear  one  under  the  snowdrift, 
For  the  step  that  came  no  more. 

'Alas,'  she  sighed,  'no  Christmas-tide 
Was  ever  so  sad  before  I' 
137 


A  TALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

''Just  then  she  heard  in  the  roadway 
The  fall  of  a  well-known  tread. 

And  a  voice,  that  failed  and  faltered, 
Out  of  the  darkness  said : 

'  Gretchen  I   Gretchen  !   Gretchen  !' 
Was  it  the  voice  of  the  dead? 

**  Nay,  nay  ;  when  the  house-door  opened, 

She  uttered  a  joyful  cry, 
For  Heinrich,  pallid  and  ghostly, 

Whispered,  '  Dear  wife,  it  is  I. 
In  the  land  of  death,  God  gave  me  breath ; 

In  the  grave  I  did  not  die.' 

*'  She  drew  him  in  from  the  darkness, 
To  the  hearthstone  warm  and  bright ; 

She  chafed  his  cold,  blue  fingers. 
Kissed  his  brow  and  lips  so  white ; 

And  the  happiest  three  in  Chamouni 
Were  in  Heinrich's  home  that  night. 

*  :}{  *  *  *  * 

"  He  said  :     '  I  had  killed  a  chamois, 

And  was  on  my  homeward  way, 
When  the  swift,  black  wing  of  the  tempest 

Obscured  the  light  of  day  ; 
I  thought  of  my  life,  of  child  and  wife, 
And,  dying,  tried  to  pray. 

*' '  I  was  swept  down,  down  from  the  glacier- 
How  far  I  can  never  know  ; 
I  found  myself  in  a  cavern 

138 


A  TALE   OF   CHAMOUNI. 

Bounded  and  barred  with  snow, 
And  heard  the  roar,  as  the  storm  went  o'er, 
Like  thunder  above  and  below. 

** '  Stunned,  dizzy  and  all  bewildered, 
As  one  might  wake  from  the  dead, 

I  felt  the  smart  and  the  throbbing 
Of  man\-  a  wound  that  bled. 

The  snow  and  the  air  had  a  lurid  glare, 
And  the  rocks  seemed  burnincr  red. 

'*  'And  then,  I  lapsed  into  slumber 

That  soothed  away  mv  pam, 
And  woke  with  a  sense  of  hunger 

That  did  not  come  in  vain. 
For  by  my  side,  securely  tied. 

Was  the  chamois  I  had  slain. 

'**  'And  this  was  food  for  the  hunter— 

A  precious,  priceless  store. 
I  slaked  my  thirst  from  the  snowdrift, 

And  needed  but  little  more. 
Until,  at  length,  God  gave  me  strength 

To  open  my  prison  door.' 

'*  Bettina,  shall  I  tell  you 

Who  these  happy  people  were? 

In  all  their  joys  and  sorrows. 
Thy  grandma  had  a  share. 

And,  darhng,  that  is  Heinnch, 
AsJeep  in  his  easy  chair." 

El.m-Croft. 


^t;^ 


<2 — 4^ 


-^^■ 


^^^^Fa^^^PoEJF.:^- 


;EEP  searcher  after  truth,  whilst  thou  art  min- 
ing 
I  litfll^g^  The  hidden  realm  of  thought, 

^S^^^^fc^  The  world's  great  heart  is  silently  enshrin- 

The  jewels  thou  hast  wrought. 


I  never  gazed  upon  thy  face  impassioned. 
Nor  held  thy  hand  in  mine ; 

I  know  not,  reck  not,  how  the  Maker  fash- 
ioned 
Thy  spirit's  mortal  shrine. 

Nor  do  I  wish  the  knowledge,  won  by  ask- 
ing— 
Thy  lineage,  state  or  place  ; 
I  know — it  is  enough — that  thou  art  tasking 
Thy  powers  to  bless  our  race. 
140 


TO    A    POET. 

Oh,  I  have  listened  to  thy  songs  enchanting, 

Until  they  rapt  my  brain  ; 
And  my  full  heart,  all  trembling,  throbbing,  panting. 

Joined  in  the  grand  refrain. 

From  these  I  learn  thou  wouldst  not  laud  a  tyrant. 

To  share  a  scepter's  power : 
That  thy  free  spirit  is  a  bold  aspirant 
To  win  a  prouder  dower. 

That  in  the  wrongs  and  wretchedness  of  others 

Thy  sympathies  bear  part ; 
That  all  the  oppressed,  the  suffering,  are  the  brothers 

Of  thy  true,  noble  heart. 

That  where  the  beacon-star  of  Faith  is  burning, 

Thy  hope  soars  up  sublime. 
Beyond  the  twilight  of  the  Now,  discerning 

The  coming  better  time. 

It  is  thy  glorious  privilege,  thy  duty, 

To  sow  with  magic  pen 
On  life's  rough  wayside  seeds  of  moral  beauty 

To  bless  thy  fellow  men : 

To  teach  that  virtuous  boldness,  that  reliance 

On  justice,  truth  and  right, 
That  never  falters  in  its  deep  defiance 

Of  tyrant  wrong  and  might. 
141 


TO   A   POET. 

Faint  not,  but  be  thine  efforts  still  directed 
To  compass  great  designs, 

And  be  the  sunlight  of  thy  soul  reflected 
From  other  hearts  and  minds. 


Until  the  arm  of  young  Reform  has  broken 

Abuses  old  and  strong. 
And  earth,  the  renovated,  wears  no  token 

Of  cruelty  and  wrong. 


142 


^->^ 


^  Wp;5T43;5ITp4♦3FpE♦^  V01CE  ?^ 


j^ 


I  HAT   saith  the  voice,  which  is  not  in   the 

thunder, 
^(^        Not  in  the  hghtning  that  burns  from  the 
sky, 
Not   in   the    earthquake   that    rends    lands 
asunder, 
Not  in  the  whirhvind  that  sweeps  madly 
by? 
From  the  wild  storm  apart, 

Still,  small  and  loving, 
Down  in  the  silent  heart, 
Teaching,  reproving — 
What  saith  the  voice? 

What  saith  the  voice,  where  the  wretched 
are  reaping 
Life-long  diseases  from  hunger  and  cold — 

143 


WHAT   SAITH   THE  VOICE? 

Where  chilly  death-dew  from  grim  walls  is  weeping 
Over  cold  hearth-stones,  all  green-grown  with  mould, 
Down  in  the  city's  lair, 
Down  in  the  cellars, 
Where  faint  and  fetid  air 
Poisons  the  dwellers — 

What  saith  the  voice? 

What  saith  the  voice,  where  child-labor  is  cheating 

Life  of  its  dew-drops,  its  sunshine  and  flowers ; 
Where  many  a  baby-heart,  languidly  beating. 
Barters  for  bread  its  young,  beautiful  hours? 
Where,  from  the  early  dawn, 

Little  blue  fingers 
Toil  and  keep  toiling  on 
While  the  day  lingers — 
What  saith  the  voice? 

What  saith  the  voice,  to  the  lordly  drones  wasting 

Treasure  and  time  in  luxurious  ease ; 
Dwellers  in  palaces,  men  who  are  tasting 
Pleasure's  bright  wine  even  down  to  its  lees  ? 
In  the  gay  revel's  glare. 

Is  joy  abiding? 
Comes  no  white  angel  there 
Mournfully  chiding? 

What  saith  the  voice? 

Hear  ye  no  voice,  whose  high  teaching  and  holy 
Bids  you  go  forth  to  the  struggle  and  strife : 

Cheering  the  languishing,  lifting  the  lowly. 
Who  perish  of  want  on  the  highways  of  life? 

144 


WHAT   SAITH   THE   VOICE? 

Hard  b\^  the  gilded  gates, 

Pitiful,  pleading, 
Many  a  Lazarus  waits — 

Pass  not  unheeding. 

What  saith  the  voice? 


What  saith  the  voice,  to  the  Dives  who  measure 

Life's  future  years  by  the  weight  of  their  gold  ; 
Who  have  no  idol,  no  God  but  their  treasure? 

Fools  !  while  they  worship,  their  last  hour  is  told. 
Gold  is  but  sordid  dust, 

Worth  small  endeavor ; 
Priceless  the  soul  that  must 
Live  on  forever. 

Thus  saith  the  voice. 

What  saith  the  voice,  where  fierce  warriors  have  striven 

Till  blood  stains  the  rivers  and  blackens  the  sod ; 
Where  many  a  noble  heart  passes  unshriven 
From  the  hot  strife  to  the  presence  of  God? 
Does  not  the  ghastly  stain 

Nothing  can  smother ; 
Whisper  forever :     "  Cain, 
Where  is  thy  brother?'' 
What  saith  the  voice? 

What  saith  the  voice,  to  the  duellist,  daring 

The  vengeance  of  God  at  false  honor's  command? 

Is  there  no  blight  on  the  life  he  is  bearing? 
Is  there  no  blood  on  his  death-dealing  hand? 

145  d-lO 


WHAT  SAITH  THE  VOICE? 

Is  there  no  final  cost, 

Though  no  man  chide  him? 

Walks  not  a  gory  ghost 
Ever  beside  liim  ? 

What  saith  the  voice? 

What  saith  the  voice,  to  the  gifted  who  tower 

In  God's  best  endowments  above  the  great  throng; 
Men  who  have  eloquence,  passion  and  power, 
Hope  in  the  future,  and  hearts  brave  and  strong? 
Work,  or  the  soul  will  rust. 

Die  of  inanity  : 
Knowing  that  God  is  just, 
Work  for  humanity. 

Thus  saith  the  voice. 

Geneva,  Switzerland. 


^' 


a; 


t^ 


.Vs 


LSXLl 


146 


►I|-JF@^^^I[^IE]\ID.3|«- 


HANKS  for  the  priceless  offering  thou  hast 
brought  I 
It  is  a  wreath  of  sweet,  poetic  flowers, 
B}'   the    kind    hand    of    partial    friendship 
wrought 
Amidst  the  witchery  of  fancy's  bowers. 

But  wherefore  hast  thou  hidden  in  the  earth 
The   talents    God   bestowed  on  thee,   so 
long? 

Does  th}'  proud  spirit  deem  of  little  worth 
Its  blessed  heritage,  the  gift  of  song? 


Was  it  thy  choice  to  win  the  prize  of  fame 
Far  from  the  sunny  paths  of  glorious  art ; 

To  write  in  sterner  characteis  thy  name, 
On  that  cold  monument,  the  world's  great 

heart  ? 

147 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

Was  it  thy  choice  to  leave  the  singing  brooks, 
The  breezy  hillside  and  the  shady  glen, 

The  violet-scented  banks  and  quiet  nooks, 
For  the  broad  thoroughfares  of  busy  men  ? 

Or  was  it  stern  necessity  compelled 

Thy  lingering  footsteps  from  the  vales  and  stream's 
Of  fancy's  Aidenn,  where  the  bards  of  eld 

Lived,  loved,  and  sung  their  own  immortal  dreams? 

Endowed  with  genius,  and  that  inner  sense 
Which  apprehends  the  beautiful,  thou  art 

Begirt,  inwrapt  with  all  the  most  intense 
And  passionate  feelings  of  a  poet's  heart. 

And  art  thou  happy  in  the  ceaseless  roar 

Of  this  cold  world's  great  Babel  ?     Canst  thou  find, 

Amidst  its  hollow  smiles  and  heartless  lore. 
Food  for  the  cravings  of  thy  towering  mind  ? 

Thou  canst  not.     There  are  moments  when  thy  soul. 
Uprising  in  the  strength  that  God  has  given. 

Spurns  from  its  pinions  earth  and  earth's  control, 
To  listen  to  the  melodies  of  heaven. 

In  the  still  chambers  of  the  solemn  night. 
When  daily  care  has  set  thy  spirit  free, 

Visions  of  beauty,  glorious  as  the  light, 
Like  holy  vestals  minister  to  thee. 
148 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

But,  oh  I  with  all  thy  gifts  of  mind  and  heart, 
Since  thou  art  tending  to  the  shadowy  shore, 

Neglect  not  to  secure  "  that  better  part '' — 
The  crown  of  life  enduring  evermore  I 

Indianapolis,  1854. 


[49 


^^TpE-fDE^D.3H- 


F  all  who  have  crossed  the  river,  and  learned 
the  eternal  lore, 
Not  one  has  returned  to  tell  us  ot"  the  land 
on  the  other  shore. 

Not  a  single  hand  has  lifted  the  curtain  that 

hangs  between  , 
Not  a  voice  revealed  the  wonders  that  no 

human  eye  hath  seen. 

• 

They  know  we  are  working,  waiting  and 

weeping  along  life's  way. 
But  never  come  back  to  tell  us  how  long  we 

have  still  to  stay. 


150 


THE   DEAD. 

Alas  I    have  they  all  forgotten  their  old  familiar  friends  ? 
Does  the  beautiful  love  they  cherished  expire  where  the 
earth-life  ends? 

Or  still  do  they  watch  and  tend  us  with  a  love  refined, 

intense, 
That  eludes  the  dull   perception   of  our  grosser  human 

sense  ? 

There  are,  who  have  seen,  in  visions,  the  dead  in  their 

human  guise. 
With  a  pallid,  shadowy  glory  on  motionless  lips  and  eyes  ; 

But  this  was  only  in  seeming — for  if  such  a  thing  could 
be, 

There  is  one,  by  the  throne  of  heaven,  who  would  some- 
times come  to  me. 

I    questioned   the   stars,    that   wander    through    limitless 

realms  of  space. 
And  besought  the  Euroclydon  to  tell  me  her  dwelling 

place. 

The  stars  looked  down  through  the  darkness,  the  winds 

went  wandering  by — 
Folded  their  wings  where  they  listed,  but  made  me  never 

reply. 

I  have  prayed  and  watched  and  waited,  and  called  to 

Heaven  her  name. 
And  stilled  my  pulses  to  listen,  but  never  an  answer  came. 

isi 


THE   DEAD. 

Never  the  wave  of  a  garment,  nor  a  white  wing  passing 

by. 

Nor  fall  of  the  lightest  footstep,  nor  sound  of  the  faintest 
sigh. 

Never  a  luminous  shadow,  nor  a  whisper  light  as  air, 
Nor  the  sense  of  an  unseen  presence,  answered  my  yearn- 
ing prayer. 

And  the  seers  have  all  been  dreaming — for  if  such  a  thing 

could  be, 
She  would  come  from  the  throne  of  Heaven,  for  a  litde 

while,  to  me. 

Indianapolis,  February,  1865. 


^52 


•^^^PE^Ii^ST-f^appER-feK-fTpE^Qi^eNDi^^S.' 


"iMTTL^^iiaA^i) 


ROM  many  a  costly  lamp  the  red  light  shone 
Upon  the  massive  vaults  of  cold,  gray  stone, 
I  •^iW^llg      Chasing  the  shadows  from  the  prison  hall. 
Where  doomed  ones  met,  at  life's  last  festi- 
val. 
Menials,  with  pallid  faces,  dressed  the  board 
I       In  gorgeous  splendor ;  sparkling  wine  was 
poured 
From    jewelled   goblets ;    viands   rich   and 

rare. 
Prepared  by  skillful  hands,  with  dainty  care, 
Sent  up  delicious  odors  ;  radiant  flowers, 
Gathered    by    gende    hands,    in    summer 

bowers. 
Exhaled  from  crystal  vases  rich  perfume. 
Like  Spring's  sweet  breath  throughout  that 

living  tomb. 
The  young,  the  gifted  and  the  brave  were 
there ; 

153 


THE  LAST  SUPPER. 

The  loving  and  the  loved,  nerved  to  endure  and  dare 

The  morrow's  fearful  doom.     No  quailing  eye 

Revealed  the  struggling  spirit's  agony ! 

No  pallid  cheek,  no  darkly  knitted  brow 

Betrayed  what  stoic  lips  would  disavow 

In  those  last  trial  hours.     Did  they  forget 

The  sweet  homes,  far  away,  where  once  they  met 

The  gentle  and  the  beautiful  ?     Apart, 

In  the  still  chambers  of  the  inner  heart, 

Was  there  no  shrinking  from  death's  gloomy  dower? 

Had  human  love  no  talisman,  no  power. 

To  stir  the  fount  of  feeling,  till  bright  tears 

Flowed  to  the  starry  dreams  of  other  years  ? 

Were  the  sweet  names  of  mother,  sister,  wife, 

Erased  from  out  the  tablet-leaves  of  life  ? 

Or,  did  the  pure,  effulgent  star  of  faith 

Light  up  the  valley  and  the  shades  of  death ; 

Revealing,  far  beyond,  the  blessed  shore, 

Where  weary  ones  find  rest  forever  more  ? 

Alas  !  they  had  no  hope  of  future  bliss  ; 

No  vision  of  a  brighter  world  than  this ; 

No  trust  in  Him,  whose  arm  is  strong  to  save ; 

No  dream  of  Heaven  ;  no  light  beyond  the  grave. 

Cold,  false  philosophy,  had  schooled  and  crushed 

Their  noblest  aspirations.     It  had  hushed 

The  still,  small  voice  of  conscience ;  graven  deep 

Upon  the  spirit's  shrine,  **  Death  is  eternal  sleep." 

Yet,  as  the  last  few  hours  of  life  went  by, 

From  that  strange  scene  of  mimic  revelry, 

Thought  vaguely  trembled  out  upon  the  broad. 

Wild  chiios  of  conjecture,  seeking  God ; 

154 


THE   LAST   SUPPER. 

Or,  striving  on  weak  pinion  to  explore, 

By  reason's  light,  some  dim  and  shadowy  shore 

Beyond  the  grave.     O,  none  may  ever  know 

The  height,  the  depth  of  that  unuttered  woe, 

That  made  the  heart  all  desolate  the  while 

Stern  stoicism  taught  the  lips  to  smile. 

Swift  o'er  the  revel  passed  the  night  away. 

And  feeble  glimmerings  of  their  final  day 

Stole  through  the  reeking  prison  ;  even  then. 

The  iron  hearts  of  those  misguided  men 

Bowed  not  before  their  Maker  ;  pealing  high 

A  hymn  to  Freedom,  they  went  out  to  die  ! 

Beside  the  murderous  guillotine  they  gave 

Their  last  farewell  to  friends,  sk}^,  earth  and  wave, 

And  passed,  together,  to  one  common  grave. 


Twenty-two  Girondists,  by  birth,  talents  and  culture  the  flower  of  France,  impris- 
oned in  the  dungeons  of  the  Conciergerie,  were  condemned  at  midnight,  on  the  30th  of 
October,  1793,  to  die  by  the  guillotine,  at  sunrise  the  next  morning. 

They  marched  back  from  the  tribunal  to  the  prison  singing  the  "Marseillaise," 
which  was  the  signal  agreed  on  to  announce  to  their  fellow-prisoners  their  doom.  As 
the  dirge-like  wailings  of  the  song  pealed  through  the  dismal  corridors  and  penetrated 
to  the  remotest  cell,  white,  haggard  faces  were  pressed  to  the  iron  gratings,  and  tear- 
ful voices  bade  the  singers  farewell. 

A  wealthy  friend,  who  had  escaped  proscription,  had  promised  them  a  sumptuous 
banquet  the  night  after  their  trial,  whatever  the  result  might  be.  He  kept  his  word, 
and  preparations  were  made  for  their  last  supper.  Servants  entered,  bearing  brilliant 
lamps,  covered  the  long,  oaken  table  with  a  splendid  cloth,  and  placed  on  it  the  richest 
viands,  the  most  delicious  fruits,  the  choicest  wines  and  the  fairest  flowers.  It  was  a 
strange  scene.  The  radiant  light,  the  reeking  vaults,  the  splendid  supper,  surrounded 
by  condemned  men — wasted,  unshorn  and  tattered  from  long  confinement.  Still  they 
kept  up  their  courage.  Toasts  were  offered,  speeches  made  and  songs  sung,  till  the 
light  of  their  last  day  glimmered  through  their  grated  windows. 


J^ 


V;it1i--..-1-V,-Ji-...--^iii.!Li^i^-l,^l,!< 


^::^^ 


"W 


^PoEMjSv  WriotejmmNvSeney^.- 


;:^^ 


IN     1-855. 


SAT  on  the  Isle  of  Rousseau, 

With  the  dear  ones  by  my  side, 
When  life  was  bright  with  the  promise 
Of  its  pleasant  summer-tide. 

The  sunshine  gleamed  on  the  terrace, 
And  the  ramparts  gray  and  old, 

And  cast  on  the  stately  statue* 
A  shimmer  of  paly  gold. 

The  lake,  like  a  silver  mirror 

With  pictured  boats  asail, 
Reflected  the  sheen  of  the  valleys  green, 

And  the  mountains  high  and  pale. 

<*The  statue  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 

'56 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   GENEVA. 

The  south  wind  sung  in  the  poplars, 
And  the  glad  waves  sung  below, 

But  that  beautiful  day  is  far  away 
In  the  years  of  long  ago. 


■-s! — ^■ 


IX  1875. 

I  sit  on  the  Isle  of  Rousseau, 
And  the  lights  and  shadows  fall 

On  the  same  old  stately  statue. 

On  the  same  old  gray-grown  wall. 

The  dead  leaves  patter  around  me, 

But  never  a  sail  goes  by, 
And  the  troubled  lake  lies  sobbing 

Beneath  a  frowning  sky. 

The  mists  hang  low  on  the  mountains  ; 

The  bloom  of  the  vales  is  sped. 
Alas,  for  the  days  so  far  away  I 

Alas,  for  the  dear  ones  dead ! 

The  north  wind  wails  in  the  poplars ; 

The  wav^es  below  make  moan. 
I  can  but  weep,  for  the  tr3^st  I  keep. 

In  the  stranger's  land,  alone. 


Geneva,  December,  1875. 


157 


'4: 


--y . :'   r    -^^ 


^^^^^M^^^^"^ 


^^TEIiIr^ :  T6 :  JIeR  :  LeVE^. 


T^vMv^Sia/vg) 


ORGET  me  I  oh,  forget  me  ! 

By  the  bitterness  of  tears, 
By  the  strength  of  love  that  dies  not 

Through  the  lapse  of  dreary  years, 
By  the  pangs  of  disappointment, 

By  the  weariness  of  care, 
By  the  broken  heart's  lone  watchings, 

By  the  darkness  of  despair, 
By  the  pains  of  separation, 

By  the  gnawings  of  regret. 
By  the  blessedness  of  heaven, 

I  charge  thee  to  forget. 

By  the  silent  stars  that  witnessed 

The  fervor  of  our  vows, 
By  the  breeze  that  sang  so  sweetly 

To  the  whispering  forest  boughs, 

158 


STELLA  TO   HER  LOVER. 

By  the  music  of  that  river 

That  lulled  us  with  its  tone, 
By  the  hills  we  climbed  together, 

By  the  forests  dim  and  lone, 
By  the  pleasant  paths  w^e  threaded 

When  the  gorgeous  sun  had  set, 
By  all  things  bright  and  beautiful 

I  charge  thee  to  forget. 

Forget  me,  love  ;  forget  me. 

And  cease  the  idle  quest ; 
Fly,  fly  the  dream  that  haunts  thee, 

And  will  not  let  thee  rest. 
By  the  promptings  of  thine  honor. 

By  the  strength  to  me  denied. 
By  thy  hatred  of  the  evil. 

By  thy  manhood,  by  thy  pride, 
By  the  mastery  of  genius. 

By  thy  peace  before  we  met. 
By  thy  truthfulness,  thy  purity, 

I  charge  thee  to  forget. 

Forget  me  :  yes,  forget  me  ! 

> 
This  is  all  the  boon  I  crave  : 

Give  the  fruitless  vows  we  plighted 
To  oblivion's  darkest  wave  ; 

Rend  the  ties  too  wildly  woven 
Round  our  kindred  souls  apart, 

Turn  my  shadow  from  thy  pathwa\', 
Tear  my  image  from  th\'  heart. 

159 


STELLA  TO   HER   LOVER. 

By  the  joys  that  came  and  faded, 
By  the  hopes  that  rose  and  set. 

By  the  present,  past  and  future, 
I  charge  thee  to  forget. 


i6o 


>^ :  D;5Yv^Wv0aCPY,v9N :  L^KE  vIlEpjiJV/ 


^ 


^'3?f5^i^55^^^XJCHY,  Lusonium's  port,  henceforth  thou  art 
A    strangely   woven    hnk    in    memory's 
chain  ; 
A  thought,  associated  in  my  heart 

With  leaden  skies,  cold  winds  and  driz- 

ling  rain. 
And  loneliness,  which  is  almost  a  sense  of 
pain. 


We  had  been  wandering  for  some  pleasant 

days 

Between  fair  Vevay  and  old  Villeneuve  ; 

Had  slept  at  Clarens,  where  Lord  Byron 

lays 

The  birthplace  of  such  witching,  won- 

d'rous  love 
As  is  not  found  on  earth,  beneath  it,  nor 
above ; 

i6i  d-n 


A  DAY  AT   OUCHY. 

Had  rambled  over  Chillon's  hoary  pile, 
And  seen  the  chain  that  bound  poor  Bonnivard ; 

Had  climbed  a  mountain  many  a  weary  mile 
To  see  the  donjon-keep  of  Chatelard  ; 
And  stood  beside  the  tomb  where  slumbers  St.  Bernard  ; 

Till,  wear}^  grown  of  bastion,  bridge  and  moat. 
Of  ivy-covered  tower  and  dungeon  cave, 

We  had  resolved  to  take  the  morning  boat. 
And,  in  despite  of  adverse  wind  and  wave, 
Retrace  our  footsteps  home  to  beautiful  Geneve. 

For  this,  we  hurried  down  from  old  Lausanne, 
With  tiTinks  in  order,  hearts  and  hopes  elate, 

And,  never  dreaming  of  the  cruel  ban 
Written  against  us  in  the  book  of  fate, 
Arrived  at  Ouchy's  quay  three  minutes  just  too  late. 

Too  late,  too  late — the  rain  was  falling  fast ; 

The  mad  lake  lashing  half  its  waves  to  spray ; 
A  chill  northeaster  rushing  rudely  past ; 

The  streets  bemired  ;  the  sky  a  gloomy  gray  ; 

The  steamboat  gone,  alas,  and  we  compelled  to  sta}  I 

But  every  desert  waste  has  some  green  tree, 
And  darkest  clouds  conceal  some  ray  of  light, 

And  life  hath  flowers  that  mortals  never  see ; 
And  so  we  cast  about,  as  best  we  might. 
To  see  which  point  of  view  in  our  mishap  was  bright. 

162 


A  DAY  AT   OUCHY. 

And  first,  the  line  old  Auberge,  where  we  stayed, 

Was  in  a  campaign,  full  of  ancient  trees 
And  winding  walks  and  fairy  bowers,  made 

For  pleasant  weather  and  luxurious  ease  ; 

But,  in  the  pelting  rain,  of  small  avail  were  these 

Then  we  could  see  the  lake  in  wild  uproar, 
And  watch  the  phases  of  the  somber  clouds, 

And  catch  the  outlines  of  the  farther  shore. 

Where  hoary  Alpine  peaks  loomed  up  in  crowds, 
Like    grim,    gigantic    ghosts,    enwrapped    in    murky 
shrouds. 

And  then  there  was  a  castle  by  the  quay, 
With  curious  windows  laced  with  iron  bars. 

Dark  vaults,  paved  courts,  and  watch-towers  tall  and  gray  ; 
A  brave  old  stronghold  of  the  feudal  wars, 
A  relic  full  of  years  and  honorable  scars. 

I  tried  to  people  it  with  warlike  men. 

Armed  with  broad  battle-axes  and  long  bows ; 

I  held  my  breath  to  listen,  now  and  then. 

For  sounds  of  hurrying  feet  and  sturdy  blows ; 

But  Fancy  would  not  wake,  nor  dream  in  her  repose. 

And  then  I  turned  away  and  tried  to  woo 
The  timid  muse  to  weave  a  woof  of  rhyme ; 

But  I  could  find  no  subject,  old  nor  new, 
Merry  nor  serious,  simple  nor  sublime. 
That  would  evolve  a  thought,  or  wring  from  words  a 

chime. 

163 


A  DAY  AT  OUCHY. 

And  so  I  counted  o'er  and  o'er  again 

The  lofty  loopholes  in  the  old  square  towers ; 

And  tried  to  learn  the  music  of  the  rain, 

And  sympathized  with  piteous-looking  flowers  ; 
And  so  the  day  dragged  on  its  lonely  weary  hours. 

Thus,  ancient  Ouchy,  were  the  linkets  wrought 

Of  that  electric  chain  that  surely  binds 
Thy  somber  aspect  to  my  world  of  thought ; 

And  faithful  memory  evermore  assigns 

Thy  name  a  place  among  my  life's  far  pilgrim  shrines. 

Geneva,  Switzerland,  1855. 


164 


•^IlE^-fn^^BE-ffili^D-fWpiDE^WE-fP^Y. 


TRUCE  to  all  sighing, 
Our  moments  are  flying — 

Let's  speed  them  with  laughter  away. 
The  waves  of  life's  river 
Return  again  never ; 

Then  let  us  enjoy  what  we  may. 

Nor  dim  the  light  shining, 

By  foolish  repining. 
Because  it  will  not  always  stay. 

It  may  be  to-morrow 

Will  bring  us  some  sorrow, 
Then  let  us  be  happy  to-day. 

We  all  have  our  crosses, 
Our  trials  and  losses  ; 
The  best  and  the  wisest  are  they 

165 


LET   US   BE   GLAD. 

Who  humbly  thank  Heaven 
For  what  it  has  given. 
And  gather  life's  bloom  by  the  way. 

The  heart's  fairest  flowers 
Are  nursed  by  the  showers 

We  weep  on  life's  dubious  way ; 
And  Hope's  brightest  rainbows 
Are  born  of  our  pain-throes  : 

So,  let  us  be  glad  while  we  may. 


Indianapolis,  1862. 


166 


^^5^We^^CENE3.:^€<. 


IN   A   PALACE. 


VER  the  moorland  the  wind  shrieketh  drear- 

Ice-jewels  glitter  on  heather  and  thorn  ; 
Pale  is  the  sunlight,  that  flashes  out  fitfully 
Over  a  dome  where  an  infant  is  born. 

Fold  silken  robes  round  the  little  one  care- 
fully; 

Lay  him  to  rest  on  his  pillows  of  down  ; 
Watch  o'er  the  sleep  of  that  scion  of  royalty, 

Born  to  inherit  a  scepter  and  crown. 


Shut  out  the  light,  that  the  room  may  be 
shadowy ; 
Fold  silken  curtains  around  the  proud  bed  ; 
Ladies  in  waiting,  step  softly  and  silently ; 
Let  not  a  word  in  a  whisper  be  said. 
167 


TWO   SCENES. 

Joy  in  the  palaces  lighted  so  brilliantly ; 

Beauty  and  bravery  are  revelling  there  ; 
Wine,  in  the  jewel-wrought  goblets,  foams  daintily 

All  things  proclaim  that  the  king  has  an  heir. 

Joy  in  the  villages — church  bells  ring  merrily. 
Rockets  are  lighting  the  sky  with  their  glare, 

Bonfires  are  crackling,  cannon  are  thundering, 
Children  are  shouting  '*Long  life  to  the  heir." 

Down-trodden  millions,  go  join  in  the  revelry  ; 

Go,  in  despite  of  the  fetters  you  wear. 
Vassals  and  beggars  and  paupers,  right  joyfully 

Flutter  your  tatters — the  throne  has  an  heir. 


-§> — 4- 


IN   A    HOVEL. 

Over  the  moorland  the  wind  waileth  mournfully ; 

Ice-jewels  glitter  on  heather  and  thorn  ; 
Pale  is  the  sunlight  that  trembles  out  fitfully 

Over  a  hut  where  an  infant  is  bora. 

None  heeds  his  wailing,  although  it  sounds  pitiful ; 

None  shields  his  form  from  the  wind,  cold  and  wald ; 
Heir  to  privation,  scorn,  ignorance,  poverty — 

Dark  is  thy  destiny,  plebeian  child. 

Child,  in  the  pitiless  ranks  of  humanity. 

Fatherless,  friendless  and  homeless  art  thou ; 

Even  the  bread  that  is  dealt  to  thee  scantily, 

Thrice  must  be  earned  by  the  sweat  of  thy  brow. 
i68 


TWO   SCENES. 

Cold  is  the  hovel — the  hearthstone  is  emberless  ; 

Creaks  the  old  door  as  it  moves  to  and  fro  ; 
O'er  the  poor  bed,  where  the  mother  lies  shivering, 

Busily  flutters  the  white-fingered  snow. 

Pale  is  the  cheek  of  the  famishing  sufferer, 
Passing  from  poverty's  vale  to  the  grave  ; 

Better  by  far  had  she  died  in  her  infancy, 
Ere  to  the  millions  she  added  a  slave. 


fc 


109 


If  I  Wej^e  w^  liii^m  ®R  W^  B^iepTEgJF  ^WK 


F  I  were  the  light  of  the  brightest  star 

That  beams  in  the  zenith  now, 
I  would  tremble  down  from  my  home  afar 

To  kiss  thy  radiant  brow. 
If  I  were  the  breath  of  a  fragrant  flower, 

With  a  viewless  wing  and  free, 
I  would  steal  away  from  the  fairest  bower, 

And  live,  love,  but  for  thee. 

If  I  were  the  soul  of  bewitching  song, 

With  a  moving,  melting  tone, 
I  would  float  from  the  gay  and  thoughtless 
throng, 

And  soothe  thy  soul  alone. 
If  I  were  a  charm  by  a  fairy  wrought, 

I  would  bind  thee  with  a  sign, 
And  never  again  should  a  gloomy  thought 

O'ershadow  thy  spirit's  shrine. 
170 


IF   I   WERE. 

If  I  were  a  memor}^,  without  alloy, 

I  would  linger  where  thou  art ; 
If  I  were  a  thought  of  abiding  joy, 

I  would  nestle  in  thy  heart ; 
If  I  were  a  hope,  with  the  magic  light 

That  brightens  the  future  far, 
I  would  make  thy  path  on  earth  as  bright 

As  the  paths  of  angels  are. 


771 


^^W?51^.:^ 


s>^^^ 


THE    DEVIL. 


ELL  met,  good  friend ;  I  sought  thee  even 
now. 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   WAR. 

And  wherefore  greet  me  with  a  frcwning 
brow  ? 

Art  not  content  with  what  I  have  achieved? 

Have  I  not  filled  the  orders  I  received? 

Have  I  not  scourged  the  land  from  shore  to 
shore, 

Until  its  shuddering  waters  blush  with 
gore  : 

Until  the  air  is  rife  with  dying  groans. 

And  the  earth  big  with  dead  men's  moulder- 
ing bones : 

Ti*  night  is  \\<  ;n\  of  the  widow's  wail, 

And  human  sorrow  is  an  idle  tale? 


172 


WAR. 


THE   DEVIL. 


Ay.  thou  hast  done  all  this,  and  more,  I  know ; 
And  yet,  methinks,  thy  steps  move  wondrous  slow. 
The  earth  has  well-nigh  made  around  the  sun 
Two  revolutions  since  the  work  begun 
In  this  fair  land  :  yet  there  is  little  done. 
What  are  the  boasted  trophies  in  thy  train  ? 
Bethink  thee  now  :     A  hundred  thousand  slain  ; 
A  path  of  desolation  here  and  there ; 
The  sounds  of  batde  dying  in  the  air ; 
Fair  homes  despoiled :  the  voice  of  woe  and  w^ail — 
These  give  me  no  sensation,  all  are  stale ! 
On,  on  I  nor  stay  thy  devastating  tread 
Till  thou  canst  count  me  full  a  million  dead. 
Spoil  their  highways,  burn  hamlet,  village,  town ; 
Sack  their  fair  cities,  tear  their  churches  down  ; 
Where  there  are  homes  to* waste  or  hearts  to  feel, 
Send  forth  the  flaming  fagot,  flashing  steel ; 
Plough  up  their  fertile  fields  with  shot  and  shell, 
Make  their  fair  land  the  vestibule  of  hell. 
On,  on  !  I  long  to  see  the  infernal  play — 
In  Hades  it  shall  be  a  holiday  ! 
On  !  over  hill  and  valley,  river,  plain. 
Where  there  is  life  pour  thou  the  leaden  rain. 
Leave  them  no  remnant  of  their  lustful  wealth, 
No  trust  in  God,  no  love,  hope,  strength  nor  health ; 
Bring  ruin,  desolation  on  the  land. 
Till  famine  stalk  from  ocean  strand  to  strand, 
And  men  shall  stand  by  their  uncoffined  dead, 
And  vex  the  ear  of  Heaven  with  cries  for  bread ! 
173 


^Te-f^ENEYH 


,Y,  level  the  green-grown  bastions, 

And  pull  down  the  hoary  wall, 
And  fill  up  the  ancient  fosses, 

And  bid  the  old  watch-towers  fall — 
Should'st  thou  ever  need  protection 

From  the  crimson  sword  of  war, 
Thy  sons  are  a  better  bulwark, 

A  nobler  defense,  by  far. 
As  firm  as  their  native  mountains. 

As  free  as  their  Lemans  waves. 
They  will  die  for  the  homes  and  hearth- 
stones 

Where  ihey  could  not  live  as  slaves. 


Ay,  level  the  green-grown  bastions, 
And  pull  down  the  hoary  wall, 

And  fill  up  the  ancient  fosses. 

And  bid  the  old  watch-towers  fall. 

'>()n  ihc  removal  of  the  ancient  Swiss  (urtificaiions. 

'74 


TO   GENEVA. 

In  the  shadow  of  mighty  nations 

Thy  voice  led  the  chirion  cry 
That  appealed  to  God  for  freedom, 

Or  death  where  the  brave  may  die ! 
Thou  hast  broken  the  chains  of  the  tyrant, 

Thou  hast  planted  the  seeds  of  truth. 
And,  although  thy  head  is  hoary, 

Thy  heart  is  the  heart  of  youth. 

Thank  Heaven  for  Winkelried,  Reding, 

And  cherish  their  memories  well. 
And  forget  not  the  men  of  Uri, 

Stauffacher,  Melchthal  and  Tell. 
The  licfht  of  thine  olden  gflorv 

Still  burns  on  thy  peerless  brow, 
And  the  arm  that  defied  oppression 

Was  nev^r  stronger  than  now. 
Then,  level  thy  green-grown  bastions, 

And  pull  dow^n  the  hoar}-  wall. 
And  fill  up  the  ancient  fosses. 

And  bid  the  old  watch-towers  fall. 


Geneva,  Switzerlam 


^'^^CB^^^a^^ 


ns 


^DEDIC7!5^I6N•^8DE.< 


^^ROTHERS,   rejoice!    for  our  task  is  com- 
^S  pleted, 

After  the  pattern  appointed  of  yore  : 
Let  the  reward  to  the  Craftsmen  be  meted, 
While   with   thanksgiving   we   bow   and 
adore, 
Low  at  the  feet  or  Him, 
Throned  where  the  Seraphim 
And  the  archangels  sing  anthems  of  praise. 
Born  of  the  lowly  dust, 
Wanting  in  faith  and  trust, 
How  shall  we  worship  Thee,  Ancient  of 
i  Days ! 

Darkly  we  grope  through  the  twilight   of 
being. 
Weary  we    wail    for   tlic   day   dawning 
bright ; 
L76 


DEDICATION   ODE. 

Father  Omnific,  Supreme  and  All-Seeing, 
Come  to  thy  Temple  and  fill  it  wjth  Light. 

Write  here  thy  great  New  Name, 

Kindle  the  altar  flame, 
Sacred  to  Thee  in  the  most  holy  place ; 

And  where  the  cherubs  fling 

Light  from  each  golden  wing. 
Leave  us  the  Ark  with  its  Symbols  of  grace. 

Show  us  the  tmth  and  the  pathway  of  duty ; 

Help  us  to  hft  up  our  standard  sublime, 
Till  earth  is  restored  to  the  Order  and  Beauty 
Lost  in  the  shadowless  morning  of  time. 

Teach  us  to  sow  the  seed 

Of  many  a  noble  deed ; 
Make  us  determined,  unflinching  aud  strong ; 

Armed  with  the  sword  of  right. 

Dauntless  amid  the  fight. 
Help  us  to  level  the  bulwarks  of  wrong. 

Prompt  us  to  labor,  as  Thou  hast  directed. 
On  the  foundation  laid  sure  in  the  past ; 
And  ma}^  "the  stone  which  the  builders  rejected" 
Crown  our  endeavors  with  glory  at  last. 
Then,  at  the  eventide. 
Laying  the  Square  aside. 
May  we  look  calmly  on  life's  setting  sun ; 
And  at  the  Mercy  Seat, 
Where  ransomed  spirits  meet. 
Hear  from  the  Master  the  plaudit,  *'  Well  done  I" 

177  ^'-12 


►iH^^ 


•i^ "^ '^v|r  'v^^-"i^ -^ ^v^ '>^''^'^^  ^  v^^  -i^  "^  v^'V^ '^^•^ 


^^l'Tw0•^6R^YEg.3le<- 


WO  little  mounds  of  common  earth  heaped 
up  where  they  are  sleeping  • 
A  simple  slab   of  marble    at   the  head, 
their  two  names  keepmg  : 
f    Two  rose  trees  drooped  at  either  side,  then- 
monthly  bloom  bestowing ; 
Some   pansies   and   verbena    flowers    m 
royal  purple  glowing. 

And  this  is  all  which  now  appeals  to  sight 
or  senses  luiman. 
Of  him  who  was  the  noblest  man,  of  her 
the  sweetest  woman. 
That  ever  for  a  litde  time,  a  Ume  too  quickly 
flying, 
Brightened  the  world  In    Hving  in't,  or 
darkened  it  by  dying. 
178 


TWO   GRAVES. 

He  walked  along  life's  common  ways,  a  meek  and  quiet 
spirit, 
Fillinsc  his  years  with  noble  deeds,  for  which  he  claimed 
no  merit ; 
His  faithful  heart  bore  bravely  on  through  many  a  fiery 
trial, 
And  earth  was  poorer  when  his  light  faded  from  time's 
broad  dial. 


But  she  was  gifted  with  rare  gifts  creative,  far  discerning, 
And  faith  in  God,  that  tempered  all  the  Hghts  of  human 
learning  ; 
A  lovely,  lofty  womanhood,  with  gentle,  child-like  sweet- 
ness ; 
A  life,  not  measured  by  its  years,  rounded  to  full  com- 
pleteness. 

He  left  us  when  the  frost  of  age  had  marred  life's  summer 
bowers  ; 
She,  when  her  feet  had  scarcely  brushed  the  dew-drops 
from  its  flowers, 
Round  him  the  evening  shadows  fell  meet  for  the  weary- 
hearted  ; 
Round  her  the  morning  sunlight  shone,  and  with  her  all 
departed. 

The  little  house  we  built  for  them  is  very  plain  and  lowly : 

Its  roof  is  simply  thatched  with  grass,  but  everj/  blade 

is  holy  ; 

179 


TWO   GRAVES. 

It  has  no  vestibule  nor  hall,  no  hearthstone,  door  nor  lat- 
tice. 
Yet  well  befits  their  uses,  its  appointments  and  its  status. 

I  stand  a-near  it  many  a  time,  and  speak  fond  words  of 
greeting ; 
Then  listen,  but  I  only  hear  my  own  wild  pulses  beat- 
ing. 
And  oft  I  weep  for  love  and  loss  till  all  my  soul  is  shaken : 
They  never  try  to  soothe  me  now ;   alas !   they  never 
waken. 


They  waken  not  at  morning's  dawn,  nor  yet  at  day's 
declining ; 
Alike  to  them  is  storrri  and  calm,  cloud-shadow  and 
sun-shining. 
They  take  no  note  of  winter's  snows  nor  summer's  trailing 
greener^^ — 
Ah,  no,  they  sleep  too  well  below  to  think  of  earthly 
scenery ! 

O  Death  I  O  Sorrow  I  ye  are  strong ;   but  God,  who  all 
created, 
Is  stronger  still.     He  will  restore  what  ye  have  deso- 
lated. 
They  loved  Ilim,  trusted  Ilim,  and  gave  their  all  to  His 
dear  keeping ; 
Their  names  are  on  His  hands,  and  He  will  waken  them 

from  sleeping. 

i8o 


TWO   GRAVES. 

And  oft  I  think  how  sweet  'twill  be  when  the  long  night  is 
over, 
When    Christ   shall    come   in   majesty,    His    jewels  to 
recover ; 
That  they  will  see  each  other  tirst  to  life  and  love  return- 
ing, 
Look  in  each  other's  eyes,  clasp  hands,  and  say  again, 
* 'Good-Morning." 

Indianapolis,  May,  1865. 


181 


.r^r^SZ^^^^^^  '"^f  "''Y^      -'^'^  <^     .. 


>^ 


•>J0PN*^B.^]^0]^P^N/ 


lED,  John  B.  Norman.     Had  I  read  aright? 
"  Surely,  dear  Lord,  it  can  not  be,"  I  said  ; 
So  full  of  life  and  strength  but  yesternight, 
This    evening    silent,    pallid,    pulseless^ 
dead  I 

Perchance  he  lingers  on  the  verge  of  life ; 

Perchance  he  only  sleeps  and  will  awake. 
Speak  to  him  tenderly,  O  stricken  wife ; 

He  ma}'  reply  to  thee  for  love's  dear  sake. 

Nay,  in  response  to  tlw  fond,  yearning  cry, 
He   does    not   lift  his  hand  nor  turn  his 
head ; 
No  life-light  trembles  back  to  lip  or  eye, 
No  heart-pulse  stirs  in  answer.     He  is 
dead ! 

182 


JOHN    B.    NORMAN. 

Dead,  in  the  flower  and  promise  of  his  prime, 
While  yet  his  sky  was  clear,  his  pathvva}'  fair ; 

Midway  the  summit  he  essayed  to  climb, 
Leaving  the  burden  he  alone  could  bear. 

O  eyes  that  see  no  beauty  on  the  earth ! 

O  hearts  that  drink  the  wormwood  and  the  sfall ! 
God  help  ye  by  your  lonely  board  and  hearth, 

Since  he  is  gone  beyond  love's  fond  recall. 

For  he  was  tender,  gentle,  mild  and  meek, 
And  yet,  withal  determined,  brave  and  strong 

To  help  the  helpless,  to  protect  the  weak. 

Uphold  the  right  and  trample  down  the  wrong. 

Lacking  his  gentle  voice,  his  genial  face, 
Your  day  has  lost  its  music  and  its  light ; 

And  far  away  into  unmeasured  space. 

The  brightest  star  has  vanished  from  your  night. 

Alas,  our  human  eyes  can  only  see 

The  grave  wherein  we  lay  him  still  and  stark ; 
By  that  dim  portal  of  the  life  to  be. 

We  stand  like  children  cr^nng  in  the  dark. 

Why  was  his  gentle  heart,  his  gifted  mind, 
Freighted  with  hopes  and  aspirations  high 

To  bear  the  cup  of  blessing  to  mankind. 

Called  from  our  midst  so  soon?     O  Father,  why? 

183 


JOHN   B.   NORMAN. 

Working  and  waiting  for  a  brighter  day, 

For  all  things  good  and  true  that  might  be  won ; 

Why  did  he  faint  and  falter  by  the  way? 

Why  fold  his  hands  before  his  work  was  done? 

God  /^nly  knows,  He  only  understands — 

We  seek  to  know  His  wondrous  ways  in  vain ; 

But  all  our  names  are  written  on  His  hands. 

And  some  day  He  will  make  the  mystery  plain. 

By  the  Eternal  Majesty  that  said, 
''  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life," 

We  know  that  our  beloved  friend,  though  dead. 
Still  lives  beyond  this  world  of  gloom  and  strife. 

Still  lives,  and  we  shall  see  his  face  again, 
The  same,  but  shining  with  angelic  light, 

When  we,  too,  waken  by  our  Father's  grace, 
J3eyond  the  sorrows  and  the  shores  of  night. 

And  as  we  go,  a  sorely  stricken  band. 

To  lay  him  down  beneath  the  senseless  sod. 

Faith  lifts  the  shadow  with  her  lily  hand, 

And  whispers,  ''Trust  him  to  the  love  of  God.'* 


ElM'Cropt,  January,  1870. 


"^F^*" 


184 


^^J)l^RRIED^^*fYE;9R.3i«- 


t 


HE  sat  on  the  stile  in  the  eventide, 

In   the   shade   of  the   beeches,   weeping 
sore — 

^  A  fair  young  widow — a  fairer  bride 
That  day  but  one  little  year  before. 

The  cushat  cooed  in  the  autumn  leaves, 
The  katydid  told  her  story  again, 

The  swallows  twittered  around  the  eaves. 
And  the  partridge  piped  in  the  ripened 
grain. 

But  she  gave  no  heed,  in  her  wild  desire. 
To  their  joyous  songs  or  their  flashing 
wings ; 
For  the  hand  of  sorrow  had  swept  life's  lyre, 
And  discord  trembled  from  all  its  strings. 
>8.S 


MARRIED   A   YEAR. 

''  O  Life,"  she  murmured,  "  thy  way  is  long 
To  the  desolate  heart  and  bleeding  feet. 

And  every  milestone  will  find  a  tongue 

To  tell  of  the  days  that  were  once  so  sweet. 

"  O  Earnest,  darling  !  by  all  our  love, 
By  the  bitter  woe  of  my  broi^en  heart, 

By  the  strength  of  death,  by  the  heavens  above, 
I  adjure  thee  to  tell  me  where  thou  art !" 

//. 

The  daylight  died  on  a  couch  of  gold, 

The  sweet  winds  sighed  in  the  meadow  grass, 

And  the  Lynn  sang  on,  as  it  sang  of  old. 
When  they  heard  it  together — alas  I  alas  ! 

He  went  to  the  war  when  the  roses  spread 
Their  glowing  hearts  to  the  summer  sun  ; 

Before  their  petals  were  withered,  dead, 
A  battle  was  fought  and  a  victory  won. 

She  tried  to  remember  his  last,  fond  tone, 
The  last  expression  his  dear  face  wore. 

When  he  left  her  there  by  the  stile,  alone, 
And  went  from  her  sight,  to  return  no  more. 

Their  wedded  happiness,  quickly  sped. 

Was  a  beautiful  dream  she  could  not  recall ; 

**  He  fell  at  the  front,"  his  companions  said, 
And  she  was  loft  desolate — this  was  all. 
i86 


MARRIED  A  YEAR. 

They  buried  him  down  in  the  Southern  land, 
But  they  could  not  ta^ry  to  mark  the  place 

Where  the  soughing  rain  and  the  reeking  sand 
Lay  heavy  and  cold  on  his  bright  young  face. 

Twilight  came  over  and  lighted  the  stars 
At  the  gates  of  a  thousand  worlds  on  high, 

And  the  moon  looked  down  through  the  purple  bars 
That  lingered  and  faded  along  the  sky. 

The  wind  w^as  asleep  in  the  beechen  leaves, 
The  moonlight  had  drifted  over  the  hill. 

The  swallows  were  quiet  beneath  the  eaves, 
And  all  but  the  babbling  Lynn  was  still. 

The  cattle  had  long  gone  up  from  their  beat, 
And  were  safely  housed  in  the  barnyard  shed : 

But  there  was  a  sound  of  approaching  feet — 
O  Father  in  Heaven  !  she  knew  his  tread. 

Down  by  the  Lynn  he  is  coming  now. 

Over  the  stepping-stones,  up  through  the  lane ;     ^ 
Living  or  dead,  she  knows  that  brow, 

Living  or  dead,  he  is  hers  agam  ^ 

A  word,  a  sob,  and  his  arms  are  wound 

Round  the  gentle  form  of  his  fair  young  wife : 

The  dead  is  alive,  the  lost  is  found, 

And  Joy  from  Despair  brings  a  crown  of  life. 
187 


MARRIED   A  YEAR. 

Not  from  the  grave  in  a  nameless  place, 
An  unquiet  ghost,  to  his  home  came  he ; 

But,  with  skeleton  form  and  death-like  face, 
From  a  Southern  prison  at  last  set  free. 

Indianapolis,  March,  1865. 


^Tpey^J)Ie3f 


HE  thought  of  him  for  years  before  they  met ; 
She  loved  him  long  before  she  saw  his 
face  : 
His  name  was,  like  a  precious  jewel,  set 
With  treasured  things  in  memory's  holy 
place  ; 
His  songs  had  breathed  upon  her  heart,  and 
cleft 
The  rock  whence  pure  and  silent  waters 
stole  ; 
They  came  inspiring  higher  life— they  left 

Enkindled  on  the  altar  of  her  soul, 
A  living  spark  of  that  electric  fire 
That  scintillated  from  his  glorious  lyre. 

In  lonely  watches  of  the  solemn  night. 
When,  save  her  trembling  heart-strings, 
all  was  still, 

189 


THEY   MET. 

His  thoughts  were  ever  round  her,  pure  and  bright, 
As  angels  sent  to  guard  her  Hfe  from  ill ; 

And  she  had  felt  their  presence  and  their  power, 
■  As  some  sweet  strain  of  music  floating  by, 

As  the  rich  fragrance  of  a  dewy  flower, 

Or  the  pale  starlight  trembling  from  the  sky  ; 

Like  spotless  \'estals  at  her  spirit's  shrine 

They  ever  ministered  in  things  divine. 

Oft  did  she  wonder  how  the  form  would  seem 

That  did  a  soul  so  beautiful  enfold ; 
Was  it  as  lovely  as  a  radiant  dream, 

Or  cast  in  nature's  sternest,  coarsest  mould? 
Had  he  a  glowing  cheek,  a  forehead  high, 

A  lip  the  model  for  the  sculptor's  art? 
And  did  the  speaking  radiance  of  the  eye 

A  nameless  beauty  to  the  whole  impart? 
She  only  knew  his  soul  was  full  of  fire. 
And  made  sweet  music  like  a  wind-swept  lyre. 

She  scarcely  hoped  that  they  would  ever  meet. 

For  fate  had  drawn  between  them  many  a  bar ; 
But  she  could  read  his  lays,  so  wild  and  sweet, 

And  love  him  as  she  loved  some  distant  star. 
He  was  to  her  as  sunlight  to  a  bird, 

As  sweetest  night-dew  to  a  thirsty  flow  or : 
A  zephyr,  breatliing  where  bright  leaves  are  stirred; 

A  rainbow,  bending  oi  i-  a  sparkling  shower; 
A  something  beautiful,  but  undolinod  ; 
A  thought,  a  joy,  a  memory  enshrined. 

190 


THEY  MET. 

Years  passed — how  many  changes  did  they  bring  ! 

And  still  those  gifted  spirits  dwelt  apart : 
But  she,  like  some  wild  bird,  had  learned  to  sing 

The  bright,  \varm  dreams  that  trembled  o'er  her  heart ; 
Her  thoughts  had  followed  his  in  many  a  flight, 

By  fancy's  sunnv  bowers  and  sparkling  streams  ; 
Her  soul,  like  his,  had  worshipped  all  things  bright, 

And  she  had  dreamed  the  same  bewitching  dreams ; 
Till  like  two  hues  in  heaven,  when  day  is  done, 
Their  spirits  met  and  mingled  into  one. 


91 


"^KlNDl^ED-f^PIRITJS.^^ 


KNEW  two  beings  in  this  world  of  care — 
Twin  souls,  whose  pilgrim  paths  were  far 
apart ; 
The  one  was  brave  and  strong,  the  other 

fair. 
And  both  endowed  of  Heaven  with  many 
rare 
And  priceless  attributes  of  mind  and  heart. 

They  dwelt  apart,  yet  they  were  formed  to 
be 
In  love's  mysterious  unity  combined  ; 
I  le  was  a  casket  of  rich  gems,  and  she 
Possessed,  unwittingly,  the  only  key 

That  would  unlock  the  treasure  to  man- 
kind 

192 


KINDRED   SPIRITS. 

Her  soul  was  like  a  fine,  unfolded  flower, 

Hiding  its  sweetness  from  the  common  view, 
Shrinking  alike,  from  shadow  and  from  shower. 
He,  like  the  morning  sunshine,  had  the  power 
To  give  it  fairer  bloom,  diviner  hue. 

Apart,  their  lives  by  common  interests  spanned. 
Were  fretted,  wasted  in  a  smouldering  fire ; 

United,  they  had  been  prolific,  grand, 

Sweeping  the  world's  great  heart-strings  as  the  hand 
Swept  the  melodious  chords  of  Memnon's  lyre. 

And  so  they  lived  and  died,  with  harps  unstrung. 

Haply  they  never  knew  that  God  had  given 
To  each  a  poet's  soul,  a  poet's  tongue. 
Nor  even  dreamed  of  songs  they  might  have  sung 

Before  the  singers,  at  the  gate  of  heaven. 

Beech  Bank,  December,  1879, 


193  ^13 


^jfDoaBT.:^ 


^F  ever  you  chance,  on  life's  highway, 
To  meet  the  infidel.  Doubt, 
Take  up  your  weapons  and  drive  him  away  ; 
For  if  you  permit  him  to  stop  and  stay, 
He  will  blow  Faith's  taper  out. 


His  hair  is  gray,  but  his  eyes  are  bold. 

And  his  bearing  wondrous  wise  ; 

He  plagued  the  prophets  and  saints  of  old. 

And  the  martyrs  down  in  their  prisons  cold. 

With  the  seeming  tmth  of  the  tales  he  told — 

All  learned  from  the  father  of  lies. 

He  says  the  world  is  an  earthquake's  spawn, 

And  that  life  was  made  by  chance ; 
That  man  was  a  fish  in  the  ages  gone — 
That    he    changed    to    an    ape,   and    still 
changed  on 
To  his  present  grand  advance. 
194 


1865. 


DOUBT. 

He  says  the  myriad  worids  on  high 

Are  only  a  learned  dream  ; 
That  there  is  no  earth,  nor  air,  nor  sky ; 
That  we  do  not  live  ;  that  we  do  not  die ; 

That  we  are  not  what  we  seem. 

He  stealthily  entered  Eden's  bower, 

Disguised  as  an  angel  fair ; 
And  when  Adam  and  Eve,  in  an  evil  hour, 
Listened  and  lost  their  holiest  dower. 
And  fled  from  the  sw^ord  of  Almighty  Power, 

He  followed  the  ruined  pair. 

He  has  hunted  and  haunted  all  mankind, 

Down  the  paths  of  time  since  then  ; 

Perverting  the  truth,  misleading  the  blind, 

And  leaving  confusion  and  wTeck  behind 

In  the  hearts  and  homes  of  men. 

He  comes  sometimes  on  his  viewless  wings 

To  the  peasant's  poor  abode ; 
He  stands  with  the  great  by  the  throne  of  kings, 
And  sits  with  the  Christian  that  prays  and  sings 

In  the  holy  house  of  God. 

Oh,  then,  beware,  if  you  chance  to  meet 

The  vagrant  infidel.  Doubt ; 
Disguised  as  a  saint,  so  mild  and  meek. 
He  may  come  when  your  heart  is  weary  and  weak ; 
But  if  you  permit  him  to  stop  or  speak. 

He  will  blow  Faith's  taper  out. 


•^Iii^5fi£E-f^;^iiPp.4-* 


T  was  when  the  year  was  old, 

When  the  grass  was  sere  and  brown, 
When   the    autumn    winds   went   wild    and 

cold, 
Over  the  woodland,  over  the  wold. 
Shaking  the  dead  leaves  down — 

That  a  dainty,  baby  face, 

A  spirit  undimmed  by  stain, 
A  form  of  touching  and  tender  grace. 
Came  from  some  brighter  and  better  place 

Into  this  world  of  pain. 


With  a  brain  to  thrill  and  ache. 

With  a  soul  to  fall  or  rise, 
A  heart  to  love,  to  suffer,  to  break. 
Two  dimpled  hands  to  refuse  or  take 
From  life  a  blank  or  prize. 

>>  Ralph  Bolton. 

.96 


LITTLE   RALPH. 

And  O,  for  a  Sybil's  art — 

For  a  Sybil's  eye  to  see 
What  power  will  rule  in  this  new  made  heart, 
What  path  is  traced  in  his  young  life's  chart 

By  the  linger  of  Destiny? 

*'0  beautiful  eyes,"  I  said, 

"  How  can  ye  learn  to  weep? 
O  little  white  feet,  how  learn  to  tread 
Wheie  the  strongest,  bravest  feet  have  bled 

From  thorn-wounds  sore  and  deep?" 

While  thus  our  love  and  our  fears. 
With  questioning  vain  and  wild. 
Went  trembling  into  the  unborn  years, 
Dreaming  of  pitiless  troubles  and  tears, 
His  sweet  lips  only  smiled. 

And  the  dainty,  bab}'  face 

Grew  lovelier  day  by  day  ; 
The  lips  smiled  on  with  a  tender  grace. 
And  we  held  him  close  in  love's  embrace 

Till  the  angels  came  that  way. 

They  came  on  a  winter  night, 

When  the  stars  were  cold  and  dim. 
And  bore  him  away  on  their  pmions  white, 
Out  of  the  darkness,  into  the  light — 
The  hom.e  of  the  Cherubim. 
197 


LITTLE   RALPH. 

Though  his  days  were  few  and  fleet 

On  the  shadowy  shore  of  Time, 
He  still  lives  on,  and  his  little  feet 
Will  learn  to  walk  in  the  life  complete 
Of  a  brighter,  better  clime. 

And  the  dimpled  hands,  instead 
Of  striving  for  earthly  prize — 
Of  daily  toiling  for  daily  bread. 
Shall  gather  the  golden  fruitage  shed 
From  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

Canton,  Missouri,  1866. 


198 


-%$^  >%^'%^'^l$?-  ''^^i 


^— ^ 


-#^  -^^  -rS^n^-tS^e 


^^PE-fFoOND^PlS-fS^^YE/ 


Qirts'tffi-^^r^^^ 


ADY,  I  watched  and  waited  for  a  word, 

A  step,  that  never  came  by  night  or  day, 
Until,  with  stricken  heart  and  brain,  I  heard 

News  of  Antietam's  battle,  far  away, 
And  knew  the  form  I  fain  had  died  to  shield. 
Was  lying  mangled  on  that  bloody  field. 

I  wondered  then  why  those  who  crave  to 
die 
Are  left,  and  others  called  who  wish  to 
stay. 
There  was  no  light  for  me  in  earth  or  sky, 

No  past,  no  future,  neither  night  nor  day  ; 
My  all  of  life,  my  soul  and  self  were  gone, 
And  yet  this  wretched  heart  kept  beating  on. 

*  ^  *  *  *  . 

199 


SHE   FOUND   HIS   GRAVE. 

I  sat  one  eventide,  with  listless  gaze 

Fixed  on  the  line  that  bounds  yon  long  sea-reach, 
Thinking  of  him  and  all  the  old,  bright  days, 

Till  I  recalled  the  fashion  of  his  speech, 
And  seemed  to  hear  the  slumberous  summer  air 
Whispering  his  tender  words  at  parting  there. 

**0,  love,"  I  cried,  in  bitter  agony, 

'*  Where,  where,  in  all  illimitable  space 

Art  thou  to-day?     Not  all  of  thee  could  die. 

Where   is   thj'    home.-"     Where    is    thy    dwelling- 
place?" 

And  starting  up,  I  know  not  wh}'  nor  how. 

Beheld  him  standing  there  where  you  stand  now. 

No,  lady,  no  ;  I  was  not  self-deceived. 

I  saw  his  face  as  surely  and  as  well 
As  I  see  yours,  by  that  dark  wall  relieved. 

With  outspread  arms  I  flew  to  him,  and  fell — 
Not  in  the  fond  embrace  I  met  of  yore. 
But  frightened,  shivering,  fainting  on  the  floor. 

When  I  awakened  from  that  death-like  swound, 
The  room  was  shrouded  in  intensest  night : 

In  strange  bewilderment,  I  gazed  around 
As  one  who  suddenly  had  lost  his  sight. 

And  soft  and  low  a  dear  voice  seemed  to  sigh  : 

**  Deatli  holds  tliis  secret,  sweet — Love  can  not  die." 

2CX> 


SHE  FOUND   HIS   GRAVE. 

They  found  me  lying  prone  upon  my  face, 

With  all  my  raven  hair  bleached  snowy  white, 

And  scarce  in  line  or  lineament  could  trace 
The  countenance  I  wore  but  yesternight ; 

Yet  I  lived  on — it  was  our  Father's  will — 

Grief  only  saps  the  heart,  it  does  not  kill. 

Thenceforth  my  life  had  but  one  single  aim, 

My  lips  one  prayer,  my  heart  one  boon  to  crave ; 

And  so,  for  many  years  I  went  and  came. 
But  yesterday  I  found  mv  hero's  grave — 

Found  it  all  starred  with  daisies,  where  the  ah* 

Makes  a  soft  murmur,  like  the  voice  of  prayer. 

I  knelt  and  kissed  my  darling's  lowly  bed, 
And  laid  my  burning  cheek  above  his  breast ; 

*'0h,  I  have  found  thee,  my  lost  love,''  I  said; 
"  My  pilgrimage  is  ended — let  me  rest." 

And  all  the  fever's  fire,  and  all  the  pain 

Drifted  away  from  weary  heart  and  brain. 

He  sleeps  in  the  green  valley  where  he  fell, 

Breasting  the  surges  of  a  fier}-  tide. 
Where  scarce  a  living  man  was  left  to  tell 

How  gallanth'  he  fought,  how  braveh'  died. 
Lad}',  my  task  is  done  :  before  the  dawn 
My  soul  shall  follow  where  its  love  has  gone. 


1878. 


201 


p->^ 


-^Wm^iw-^M^-^VIm^iM. 


INCE  Death  has  taken  all  the  best 

That  life  and  love  had  given  to  me, 
I  often  feel  a  strange  unrest — 
A  nameless  longing  to  be  free, 
To  solve  the  wondrous  mystery 
That  lies  beyond  the  shadowy  bar. 
I  know  my  lost  ones  live  and  are 
Together  in  some  land,  some  star, 

Incircled  by  a  golden  zone  ; 
But,  ah,  the  path  is  dim  and  far, 
And  I  am  weary  and  alone, 
And  in  my  weariness  have  grown 
Reckless  of  what  I  might  achieve, 
But  still  I  wind  my  thread  and  weave. 

Wea\'e   warp   and   woof   of   checkered 

thought, 
But  nevermore  as  once  I  wrought, 
When  e'en  the  simplest  of  my  lays 
202 


WAITING  AND   WEAVING. 

Won  loving  lips  to  word  of  praise. 

'T  were  bootless  now  to  count  the  cost 

Of  wheit  I  won  or  what  I  lost ; 
But  when  the  gloom  of  twilight  falls 
Along  the  evening's  dusky  walls, 
And  every  throb  and  every  thrill 
Of  Nature's  heart  seems  hushed  and  still, 
Or  only  heard  as  in  a  dream, 
The  sweet,  low  laughter  of  the  stream, 
My  faithful  memory'  recalls 

The  Imaments  of  each  dear  face 

That  love  still  holds  in  fond  embrace, 

And,  talkmg  to  myself,  I  say 

Of  one,  ''  She  was  so  young,  so  dear ! 
Her  life  had  only  reached  its  May ; 

Why  did  the  Father  summon  her? 
The  world  has  many  older  folk, 

Weak,  tottering  forms  with  snowy  hair ; 

Sad  faces,  seamed  with  toil  and  care. 
And  hearts  aweary  of  life's  yoke. 
If  Death,  instead,  had  summoned  hence 

From  pain  and  sorrow  one  of  these. 

Who  only  drink  life's  bitter  lees, 
It  had  been  best  to  human  sense. 
Her  work  was  surely  needed  here  ; 
Why  did  the  shadow  fall  on  her?" 
He  knoweth  well  who  loves  us  best, 
Nor  dare  I  question  His  behest ; 

Yet  in  my  loneliness  I  grieve. 

And,  weeping,  wind  my  thread  and  weave. 
20^ 


WAITING   AND  WEAVING. 

And  of  another,  dearer  still, 

Large,  gifted,  true  of  heart  and  mind, 
With  conscious  power  and  iron  will, 

By  reason  i-uled,  by  love  refined, 

I  can  but  say,  "  O  noble  heart ! 

O  soul,  that  left  no  counterpart. 
Thy  longer  stay  hath  blest  mankind. 

The  har\^est  fields  of  earth  are  white, 
And  yet  the  reaper  is  not  blind, 

Nor  walking  in  the  night ; 
He  knoweth  w^hom  to  take  and  leave." 
And  so  I  wind  my  thread  and  weave ; 
But  nevermore  as  once  I  wrought, 
When  fervid  fancy  kindled  thought, 
And  heart,  and  hope,  and  love  kept  time, 
To  the  wild  measure  of  my  rhyme. 

It  little  recks  to  count  the  cost 
Of  what  is  won  or  what  is  lost ; 
But  if  my  muse  has  plucked  a  flower 
That  did  not  bloom  in  Eden's  bower, 
Has  struck  new  light  from  some  old  thought, 
Or  found  a  gem  not  ovenvrought. 

Through  all  the  years  since  Homer  sung. 
The  busy  world  will  find  a  tongue 
To  give  me  fitting  credit,  when 
I  walk  no  more  with  living  men. 

My  heart  and  harp  alike  unstrung. 
I  am  content  to  wait  till  then 
For  judgment  on  what  I  achieve, 
And  so  I  wind  my  thread  and  weave. 


Bekch  ISank,  Ji'N'B,  1879. 


204 


SHE  SAT  ALONE  ON  A  COLD,  GREY  STONE. 


206 


^Jf-Iie^n^.^H- 


HE  sat  alone,  on  a  cold,  gray  stone, 

Where  the  river  made  a  desolate  moan. 


^5?g)^^^  The  sycamore  trees  stood  white  and  bare, 
'^f^M^M^    Like  sheeted  ghosts  in  the  dusky  air. 


%      A  black  cloitd  floated  along  the  sky. 
And  a  night-bird  uttered  a  dismal  cry. 

i 

Sadly  she  thought  of  the  innocent  time, 

Wildly  she  wept  for  her  shame  and  crime. 

Darker  and  deeper  the  shadows  grow — 
He  promised  to  meet  her  an  hour  ago. 

She  sat  alone  on  the  cold,  gray  stone, 
And  the  river  flowed  with  a  sadder  moan. 


She  heard  the  hum  of  the  distant  town, 
The  patter  of  dead  leaves  falling  down. 
207 


LOST. 

She  heard  the  toad  in  the  long,  dank  grass, 
But  never  his  tread — alas  I  alas  ! 

The  morning  came,  with  its  golden  light, 
To  the  sycamore  trees,  so  bare  and  white. 

The  mists  that  slept  on  the  river's  brim 
Went  up  like  the  wings  of  the  cherubim. 

The  water-lilies,  so  cold  and  fair. 

Were  tangled  with  tresses  of  bright  brown  hair. 

The  osiers  bent,  with  a  quiet  grace, 
Over  a  form  with  a  still,  white  face. 

The  river  flowed  with  a  desolate  moan, 
And  dead  leaves  fell  on  the  cold,  gray  stone. 


208 


V      5) 


^^liIYIN6*ff^EM6P?IEJS.^:' 


'^JimV%M  I  bewildered  with  mesmeric  sleep, 

\m^        Till  life's  surroundings  are  not  what  they 
seem  ? 
^^§S^^^  Has  my  poor  brain  grown  dizzy,  till  I  keep 
•ml-  Vigil  with  phantoms  ?     Surely  some  glad 

Of  morning  light  will  wake  me  from  a 
dream, 
And  I  shall  find  thee  near  me,  love,  once 
more ! 
They  told  me  thou  wert  dead,  but  still  I 
deem 
That  w^hen  a  few  long,  weary  days  are  o'er, 
Thou  wilt  return  to  me  from  that  far,  shad- 
owy shore. 


509 


M-i 


LIVING    MEMORIES. 

Through  the  still  chambers  of  the  solemn  night, 
My  spirit  seeks  thee  fearless  and  alone — 

Seeks  thee  with  yearning  cry.     Is  there  no  might 
In  human  love,  no  holy  word,  no  tone. 
To  reach  thee  in  the  distant,  dim  unknown? 

Hast  thou  forgotten  me?     Thou  wert  and  art 
The  magnate  of  my  being ;  we  had  grown 

Into  one  mind,  one  soul,  one  loving  heart. 

Which  neither  life,  nor  death,  nor  time,  nor  space  can 
part. 

Could  I  live  o'er  again  a  single  day 

Of  all  the  pleasant  years  I  spent  with  thee ; 
Could  I  by  w^atching,  waiting,  hear  thee  say 

The  least  word  thou  didst  ever  speak  to  me ; 

To  hear  thy  coming  feet,  to  turn  and  see 
Thy  dear  eyes,  with  the  old  affection  rife. 

To  lean  my  aching  head  upon  thy  knee. 
And  hear  thy  low  voice  fondly  call  me  wife — 
Oh,  this  were  worth  all,  all  the  poor  remains  of  life? 

Together  we  w^ent  forth  amidst  the  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  life's  spring,  together  heard 

The  witching  song  of  hope  in  summer  bowers ; 
Feeling,  emotion,  passion,  stilled  or  stirred 
Our  hearts  in  unison  ;  one  thought,  one  word, 

Moved  both  alike  to  pleasure  or  to  pain. 
We  saw  our  idols  broken,  we  interred 

The  hopes  we  fondly  nursed  for  years  in  vain  ; 

Then  why  didst  thou  go  hence,  or  why  did  I  remain  ? 

2IO 


LIVING    MEMORIES. 

I  may  seem  to  the  busy  world  the  same ; 

May  care  and  toil  and  strive,  but  not  for  gold ; 
May  sing  my  simple  rhymes,  but  not  for  fame ; 

May  smile,  but  never  as  I  smiled  of  old ; 

For  an  unmoving  shadow,  dark  and  cold, 
Lies  on  my  hearthstone  :  the  lone  path  I  tread 

Is  haunted  by  sad  memories  :  damp  and  mould 
Grow  on  the  altar  fondest  love  once  fed, 
And  my  heart's  passion-flower  is  planted  by  its  dead. 

I  stood  beside  thee  when  thy  w^ork  was  done. 
When  the  pale  angel  came  from  God  and  laid 

His  hand  upon  thy  heart.     A  glory  shone 

From  heaven  upon  thy  cold,  white  face,  and  made 
A  halo  round  us  as  we  wept  and  prayed. 

Leaning  on  Faith,  the  meek-eyed  and  the  mild, 
Thou  didst  put  off  life's  garment,  undismayed, 

And  sink  to  sleep  as  some  pure-hearted  child 

Wearied  with  idle  toys  which  had  too  long  beguiled. 

Men  may  forget  that  thou  hast  lived  and  wrought 
Thy  life-task  well  ;  thme  was  no  lofty  ami. 

Yet  thou  wert  good  and  tioie  in  deed  and  thought, 
Seeking  no  praise,  incurring  little  blame  : 
With  an  unselfish  heart  and  spotless  fame, 

Thou  didst  walk  humbly  to  life's  close  sublime : 
And  so  it  recks  not  how  or  when  thy  name 

Is  blotted  from  men's  hearts  by  dust  and  rime. 

And  dashed  by  ebbing  waves  from  the  frail  sands  of 

Time. 

211 


LIVING    MEMORIES. 

Day  follows  day,  with  night  and  purple  dawn, 
And  the  sweet  witchery  of  starry  eves ; 

And  evermore  the  old  world  hurries  on. 

While  the  pale  reaper  gathers  in  the  sheaves 
Of  his  perpetual  harvest.    Some  he  leaves 

To  wait  and  weep  awhile  ;  but  Time's  poor  dower 
Is  only  lent  till  the  tried  heart  achieves 

Its  work  below.     And,  by  God's  grace  and  power, 

I  shall  rejoin  thee,  love,  when  death  crowns  hfe's  last 
hour. 

Indianapolis,  January  25,  1859. 


%'«^ 


•^    V    Vk  ^ 


212 


M     *^H^ 


»-''-Uty< 


•i^-^Vf/V^^'^'i^^V^V^^f  \^  e^e^t^c^^V^V^^*^ 


►^ 


ED6^R♦^^.^P6E/ 


^EY  have  laid  thee  down  to  slumber,  where 
the  sorrows  that  encumber 

Such  a  wild  and  wayward  heart  as  thine, 
can  never  reach  thee  more  : 

From  the  weariness  and  sadness,  from  the 
fever  and  the  madness. 

Of  a  life  that  knew  no  gladness,  to  a  bright 
and  blessed  shore — 

To  the  wondrous  joy  and  beaut}'  of  the  dis- 
tant Aidenn  shore, 

Thou  art  gone  forevermore. 

Thou  wert  like  a  meteor  glancing  through 

a  starry  sky,  entrancing. 
Thrilling,    awing    rapt   beholder   with    the 

wondrous  light  it  wore  ; 
But   the    meteor   has    descended,    and    the 

"  Nightly  ■'  shadows  blended  ; 
213 


EDGAR  A.   POE. 

For  the  fever-dream  is  ended,  and  the  fearful  crisis  o'er— 
Yes,  the  wild,  unresting  fever-dream  of  human  life  is  o'er ; 
Thou  art  sleeping  evermore. 

Ocean,  earth  and  air  could  utter  words  that  made  thy 
spirit  flutter. 

Words   that   stirred   the  hidden  fountain  welling  in  thy 
bosom's  core  ; 

Stirred  it  till  its  wavelets  sighing,  wakened  to  a  wild  reply- 
ing. 

And  in  numbers  never  dying  sung  the  heart's  unwritten 
lore — 

Sung  in  wild,  bewitching  numbers,  thy  sad  heart's  unwrit- 
ten lore. 

Now  unwritten  nevermore. 

There  w^as  something  sad  and  lonely  in  thy  mystic  songs, 

that  only 
Could  have  trembled  from  a  spirit  wear}.-  of  the  life  it 

bore  ; 
Something  like  the  plaintive  toning  of  a  hidden  streamlet 

moaning, 
In  its  prisoned  darkness  moaning,  for  the  light  it  knew 

before — 
For  the  fragrance  and  the  sunlight  that  had  gladdened  it 

before,  / 

Sighing,  sighing  evermore. 

To  thy  gifted  spirit  dreaming  came  a  strange  effulgence 

beaming. 

Beaming,   flashing   from    a   region   mortals    never    may 

explore ; 

214 


EDGAR   A.    POE. 

Spirits  led  thee  in  thy  trances  through  a  realm  of  gloomy 

fancies, 
Giving  spectres  to  thy  glances  man  had  never  seen  before  ; 
Wondrous  spectres,  such  as  human  eye  had  never  seen 

before. 

Were  around  thee  evermore. 

Thou  didst  see  the  starlight  quiver  over  many  a  fabled 
river ; 

Thou  didst  wander  with  the  shadows  of  the  mighty  dead 
of  yore ; 

And  thy  songs  to  us  came  ringing  like  the  wild,  unearthly 
smging 

Of  the  viewless  spirits  winging  o'er  'Mhe  night's  Pluto- 
nian shore" — 

Of  the  \yeary  spirits  wandering  by  the  gloomy  Stygian 
shore, 

Singing  dirges  evermore. 

Thou  didst  seem  like  one  benighted,  one  whose  hopes 

were  ciaished  and  blighted. 
Mourning  for  the  lost  and  lovely  that  the  world  could  not 

restore ; 
But  an  endless  rest  is  given  to  thy  heart  so  wTecked  and 

riven, 
Thou  hast  met  again  in  heaven  with  the  "lost"  and  loved 

"Lenore" — 
With  the  ''rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  anoels  call 

Lenore  f 

She  will  leave  thee  nevermore. 

215 


EDGAR   A.    POE. 

From  the  earth  a  star  has  faded,  and  the  shrine  of  song  is 

shaded, 
And  the  muses  veil  their  faces,  weeping  sorrowful  and 

sore : 
But  the  harp  all  rent  and  broken  left  us  many  a  thrilling 

token — 
We  shall  hear  its  numbers  spoken,  and  repeated  o'er  and 

o'er ; 
Till  our  hearts  shall  cease  to  tremble,  we  shall  hear  them 

sounding  o'er, 

Sounding  ever,  evermore. 

We  shall  hear  them  like  a  fountain  tinkling  down  a  rugged 

mountain. 
Like  the  wailing  of  the  tempest  mingling  with  the  ocean's 

roar. 
Like  the  winds   of   autumn    sighing  when   the   summer 

flowers  are  dying, 
Like    a    spirit   voice   replying    from    a    dim    and    distant 

shore — 
Like   a  wild,   mysterious  echo   from   a  distant,  shadowy 

shore, 

We  shall  hear  them  evermore. 

Never  more  wilt  thou  undaunted  wander  through  **the 

Palace  haunted," 
Or   the   ''cypress   vales   Titanic"    which    thy   spirit   did 

explore  : 

Never  hear  the  "Ghoul"  kmg  dwelling  in  the  ancient 

steeple  telling, 

216 


EDGAR  A.    POE. 

With  a  slow  and  solemn  knelling,  losses  human  hearts 

deplore — 
Telling    "in    a   sort   of    Rhunic   rhyme"   the  losses  we 

deplore  ; 

Tolling,  tolling  evermore. 

If  a  ''living  human  being''  ever  had  the  gift  of  "see- 
ing'' 

The  "grim  and  ghasth'*'  countenance  his  "evil"  genius 
wore, 

It  was  thee,  "  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful  disas- 
ter 

Followed  fast,  and  followed  faster,  till*'  thy  "songs  one 
burden  bore — 

Till  the  dirges  of"  thy  "hope  one  melancholy  burden 
bore. 

Of  never,  nevermore." 

Indianapolis,  November  i,  1849 
I 


<S^ •-^AdgA^.— ^ 


-n 


:^^£^'^i^i^^i-^^3 


^I]vif;5N^icide 


Mfi>- 


BOVE  us  the  clouds  are  wild  and  black, 
The  winds  are  howling  on  our  track, 
The  shivering  trees  are  bare  and  bleak, 

2)  My  heart  is  sick,  and  my  limbs  are  weak. 
Wandering  wearily,  wearily. 

They  turned  me  away  from  the  rich  man's 

door, 
Haggard  and  hungry,  cold  and  poor. 
There    was    feasting,    laughter    and    song 

within  ; 
But  they  turned    me  away,   in  my  tatters 

thin. 
With  thee,  thou  pledge  of  my  shame  and 

sin — 
Away,  where  ilu   wind  sobs  drearily. 

218 


INFANTICIDE. 

My  heart  was  cold,  and  the  demons  came, 
With  their  Hvid  Hps  and  their  eyes  of  flame ; 
They  told  me  to  murder  thee,  child  of  shame, 
And  laughed  till  my  brciin  whirled  dizzily. 

They  follow^ed  my  path  through  the  drifted  snow. 
Taunting,  and  mocking,  and  gibbering  low  : 
"  There  is  peace  and  rest  where  the  cold  waves  flow 
Far  down  o'er  the  white  sands  busily." 

I  felt  their  breath  on  my  tortured  brain  ; 
They  tore  my  heart  and  I  shrieked  in  vain ; 
The}'  whispered  :  ' '  Death  is  the  end  of  pain  ; 

Fly,  fly  to  the  grave's  security. 
The  world  will  turn  from  the  hideous  stain 

That  mars  thy  womanly  purity," 

They  bade  me  remember  the  bright  old  time, 
My  cottage  home  in  a  foreign  clime, 
The  friends  I  lost  by  my  love  and  crime. 

Till,  smothering  my  soul's  humanity^ 
I  grasped,  in  the  strength  of  my  deep  despair, 
Thy  neck,  my  babe — it  was  soft  and  fair ; 
But  the  w^arm  blood  curdled  and  blackened  there, 

To  witness  my  wild  insanity. 

How  quiet,  rigid  and  cold  thou  art ! 
I  lay  thy  head  on  my  fainting  heart. 
And  kiss  thy  lips,  with  a  quivering  start ! 
My  hand — God  I  let  me  not  think  of  it  I 
219 


INFANTICIDE. 

I  have  seen  thee  smile,  I  have  felt  th\'  breath ; 
Can  I  feel  it  now?     O  death,  pale  death  I 
Thy  lethean  cup,  let  me  drink  of  it  I 

We'll  make  us  a  bed  in  the  snow  so  deep ; 

The  frost  with  a  shroud  will  cover  us  ; 
The  winds  w^ill  lull  us  to  dreamless  sleep. 
And  the  stars,  in  their  far-off  homes,  will  keep 

Their  beautiful  night-watch  over  us. 


Where  is  the  father  of  that  dead  child, 

That  sleeps  where  the  winds  wail  mournfully? 
He  left  the  woman  his  love  beguiled — 
Is  the  monster  loathed,  contemned,  reviled? 
Does  the  world  regard  him  scornfully  ? 


He  is  revelling  now  where  the  lamps  are  bright, 
Where  the  hours  go  by  in  a  festive  flight, 

And  the  gleeful  song  rings  merrily. 
They  wish  him  joy  on  his  bridal  night. 

And  warm,  young  hearts  beat  cheerily. 


The  bride  is  a  creature  of  love  and  youth, 
With  an  eye  of  light  and  a  lip  of  tnith, 

And  a  fair  form  moulded  slenderly  ; 
Her  heart  is  a  fountain  of  kindly  rutii, 

That  flows  for  the  suffering  tenderly. 
220 


INFANTICIDE. 

Oh,  little  she  dreams  that  a  wretch  defamed, 
Deceived,  dishonored,  betrayed,  ashamed, 
Bv  the  strength  of  the  bridegroom's  oath  once  claimed 
The  love  she  is  fondly  cherishing. 

For  he  is  a  model  of  manly  grace, 
With  the  sounding  name  of  a  noble  race ; 
He  has  power,  and  fame,  and  fair,  broad  land, 
And  there  is  no  blood  on  his  jewelled  hand 
To  tell  of  the  lost  one  perishing. 

Where  censers  breathe  and  jewels  shine, 
They  pledge  him  now^  in  the  rich,  red  w^ine ; 
But  never  by  token,  or  w^ord,  or  sign, 

Allude  to  his  victim's  histoiy. 
They  fill  the  cup  to  the  sparkling  brim. 
With  life  and  pleasure  and  fame  for  him. 
The  future  is  bright ;  let  the  past  be  dim. 

And  wrapped  in  a  fearful  mystery. 


221 


IKK! 


^PE•MJS♦^6G]S[E.♦ 


^NE  that  we  love  has  gone 

From  the  dear  old  home  to-day, 
Into  the  world  alone  : 

May  God  direct  his  way ! 
Gone  to  life's  busy  marts, 

Never  again  to  find 
The  love  of  truer  hearts 

Than  those  he  leaves  behind  ; 
Never  again  to  see 

The  light  of  childhood's  joy, 
Never  again  to  be 

A  merr}'-hearted  boy. 
Gone  to  the  din  and  strife, 

Dreaming  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 
Gone  to  the  battle  of  life, 

Bearing  the  shield  of  truth. 


Gone  on  a  passing  wave, 

In  manhood's  morning  pnme. 

Gifted,  determined,  brave, 
A-down  the  stream  of  lime ; 

222 


HE   IS    GONE. 

With  noble  aims  in  view, 

A  strong  and  steady  hand, 
A  soul  to  dare  and  do 

Whatever  he  has  planned. 
Our  Father,  send,  we  pray. 

An  angel  guide  with  hnn. 
To  teach  his  feet  the  wa\- 

When  it  grows  rough  and  dim. 
And  with  the  toil  and  care. 

Uncertain  hopes  and  fears, 
Send  sunshine  here  and  there 

Along  his  coming  years. 

His  chamber,  bright  of  old, 

Is  strangely  still  and  lone ; 
Its  light  is  drear  and  cold. 

Its  singing-bird  has  flown. 
We  miss  a  pleasant  word, 

A  snatch  of  some  old  tune, 
A  face  by  hearth  and  board 

That  brought  the  light  of  June. 
Darker  the  twilight  falls 

To  find  the  echoes  dead 
That  once  along  the  halls 

Loved  to  repeat  his  tread. 
But  where  the  dear  ones  meet. 

When  light  without  grows  dim, 
We  keep  a  vacant  seat 

And  welcome  warm  for  him. 


Canton,  March,  1S64. 


J 


^WHE-f^N^WFLHKE. 


^  BEAUTIFUL  snowflake  !  fold  thy  wings, 
And  tell  us  what  thou  hast  seen 

*^  Of  the  hidden  realms  and  mysterious  things 
Where  thy  fairy  feet  have  been? 

*'  Long,  long  ago  I  had  my  birth 
On  a  mountain  hoar  and  high  ; 

With  a  burst  of  mirth  I  sprang  from  the 
earth 
To  the  light  of  a  summer  sky. 

*' With  my  merry  mates  I  danced  along 

To  the  bright  vales  far  awa}' ; 
We  were  young  and  strong,  and  sung  a 
sweet  song 

To  the  gentle  flowers  of  May. 

224 


THE   SNOWFLAKE. 

"Away  in  the  golden  noontide  beam, 

In  the  shadows  w  eird  and  wild, 
Through    gloom    and   gleam    I    danced    with   the 
stream. 

Like  a  happy-hearted  child. 

*'  I  never  recked  of  cloud  nor  storm. 

Till  the  south  wind  came  one  day. 
And  changed  m}-  form  with  his  breath  so  warm 

To  a  mist,  and  bore  me  away. 

"  I  was  not  alone,  and  our  blue  simars. 

Up-trailing  from  vales  and  rills. 
Were  woven  with  bars  of  the  midniofht  stars 

In  a  crown  for  the  ancient  hills. 

''I  was  changed  again  bv  mvstic  art, 

As  the  nightly  hours  rolled  on, 
And  woke  with  a  start  in  a  rose's  heart, 

When  the  stars  went  out  at  dawn. 

*'  Brighter  and  fairer  the  young  rose  grew, 

And  I  loved  her,  that  happy  hour. 
With  a  love  as  true  as  a  drop  of  dew 

E'er  bore  to  a  peerless  flower. 

**  But  the  sunliorht  came  from  the  mornmor  skies 

To  our  bovver  of  love  and  bliss. 
Bedazzled  my  eves  witli  his  wondrous  guise, 

And  bore  me  away  with  a  kiss  ; 

225  i-\o 


THE   SNOWFLAKE. 

*'A\vay,  away,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Where  the  skylark  never  sings  : 

But  I  came  again  in  the  summer  rain 
That  painted  the  rainbow's  wings. 

'*  From  my  airy  height  I  chanced  to  light 

In  a  torrent  wild  and  tree, 
And  I  slept  that  night  by  the  soft  moonlight 

In  the  arms  of  the  mighty  sea. 

'*  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  angry  waves 
As  the  storm-king  thundered  by. 

And  I  saw  the  graves  in  the  hidden  caves 
Where  the  lost  and  lovely  lie. 

*'  I  dreamed  of  the  bright  things  far  away, 
And  sighed  for  my  love  in  vain, 

Till  I  strove  with  the  spray,  one  winter  day, 
And  was  changed  to  a  mist  again. 

'*  But,  alas  !  the  earth  was  bleak  and  cold, 

The  winds  went  wailing  by. 
And  the  clouds  were  rolled  in  many  a  fold 

Along  the  dreary  sky. 

**  *Oh,  where  is  my  beautiful  love?'  I  sighed, 

*  I  have  sought  her  to  and  fro.* 
Then  a  voice  replied,  *  Thy  blossom-bride 

Died  a  thousand  years  ago.* 
226 


THE   SNOWFLAKE. 

**And  where  is  the  gentle  stream  that  sprung 
From  the  hoary  mountain's  brow — 

The  stream  that  sung,  when  I  was  young — 
Where,  where  is  my  old  home  now? 

"Alas  I  for  me  no  friends  remain  ; 

No  home,  no  love  below ! 
I  sighed  in  vain,  with  a  bitter  pain, 

And  froze  to  a  flake  of  snow^" 

Indianapolis,  January,  i86i. 


3|*«il€ 


v^^ 


227 


^^- 


^^ 


^2^TpE♦^li;5g^♦^]^I6pw.•5> 


HOLD  it  still  in  my  heart's  embrace, 

But  I  see  it  most  in  my  hours  of  gloom — 
A  shrouded  form,  with  a  still,  white  face, 
As  I  saw  it  last  in  that  darkened  room. 

The  beautiful  forehead  is  calm  and  cold, 
The  eyes  are  closed,  but  not  to  sleep ; 

The  lips  have  a  firmer,  sadder  fold — 

Oh,  my  heart  would  break  if  I  could  not 
weep. 

Heavy  and  damp  is  the  silvered  hair — 
It  will  bleach  no  more  in  the  storm  and 
sun  : 

The  hands  are  chasped  with  a  listless  air — 
They  toiled  for  us,  but  their  work  is  done. 


:zH 


THE  LAST  NIGHT. 

He  bade  us  adieu  in  the  cold,  gray  dawn  ; 

Love  was  the  burden  of  word  and  tone  ; 
His  poor  heart  beat  as  the  day  rolled  on — 

When  the  twilight  came  we  were  all  alone. 

Never  till  then,  in  the  begone  years, 
Had  he  disregarded  our  lightest  sigh  ; 

But  now  w^e  lavished  our  lov^e  and  tears 
On  lips  that  murmured  no  fond  reply. 

Stricken,  despairing,  weary  and  weak. 

We  watched  and  wept  through  the  pitiless  night, 

Shrinking  from  thoughts  that  we  dared  not  speak, 
Dreading  the  dawn  of  the  morrow's  light. 

Dreading  the  future  so  cold  and  dim, 

With  its  trials,  sorrows  and  cares  unknown ; 

We  had  hoped  to  gather  its  flowers  with  him — 
How  should  we  walk  in  its  paths  alone? 

How  should  we  sit  w^here  the  cheerful  rays 
Of  the  home-fire  gleamed  on  his  vacant  seat? 

How  go  forth  in  the  streets  and  ways 

That  still  bore  the  impress  of  his  dear  feet? 

Never,  no  never,  can  time  efface 

That  time  of  parting,  and  pain,  and  gloom. 

Nor  steal  from  my  heart  of  hearts  that  face, 
As  I  saw  it  last  in  that  silent  room. 

Indianapolis,  December,  i860. 

229 


^Il0EJPY4^]^iID4llOWLY. 


RHYMES   WRITTEN   ON   MEISSEN   CHINA. 


OO  often  the  hollow  pomp  and  show 
Of  people  of  wealth  and  fashion, 
Excites  in  the  toilers  down  below 
Emotions  of  envious  passion. 

We    look    from    our    homy,    sun-browned 
hands, 

Where  the  stain  of  labor  lingers, 
To  the  sparkling  gems  and  golden  bands 

That  circle  their  soft,  white  fingers, 


And  wonder  how  we  should  feel  to  live. 
Like  them,  in  a  round  of  pleasure, 

With  all  the  baubles  that  gold  could  give 
To  amuse  our  elegant  leisure. 


230 


LOFTY  AND   LOWLY. 

With  dainty  dinners  and  dainty  clothes, 
And  dainty  servants  to  dress  us ; 

Dainty  couches,  coulciw  dc  rosc^ 
And  dainty  friends  to  caress  us. 

We  do  forget  that  the  cup  of  life 
With  jewels  and  gold  may  glitter, 

Though  filled  with  sorrow^  and  care,  and  strife, 
Till  its  every  drop  is  bitter. 

Forget,  as  w^e  wearily  trudge  along. 

Bearing  our  tiresome  burden. 
That  the  slow  are  swift,  the  weak  are  strong, 

To  win  the  eternal  guerdon. 

Forget  that  Jesus,  the  crucified. 

Was  homeless,  and  poor,  and  lowly ; 

That  common  labor  was  glorified 
By  His  stainless  hands,  and  holy. 

Forget,  when  we  suffer  wTong  and  loss, 
That  God  maketh  all  things  even, 

That  never  a  soul  without  a  cross 
Can  enter  the  gates  of  Heaven. 

Dresden,  Saxony,  March,  1873. 


231 


^  Wh  Y:5fflE :  Bm^H -^©^Evlgvl  JIPEREECJF. 


^    WHITE  rose,  from  her  morning  dream 
Awakened  by  the  amorous  air. 
Beheld  her  image  in  a  stream. 
And  blushed  to  see  herself  so  fair. 

Then  proudly  tossed  her  regal  head 
And  spread  her  bosom  to  the  sky, 

And,  whispering  to  herself,  she  said : 
"  Behold  how  beautiful  am  I ! " 

And  thus  it  was  at  day's  eclipse, 

A  zephyr  found  her  proud  and  vain  ; 

Touched  her  bright  petals  with  his  lips. 
And  left  thereon  a  burning  stain. 

232 


WHY  THE  BLUSH  ROSE  IS  IMPERFECT. 

The  beauty  felt  the  smart,  and  cried  : 
"Though  thou  hast  kissed  me  to  betray, 

The  dew  will  come  at  eventide 
And  wash  the  cruel  stain  away.'' 

But  never  dew  nor  summer  rain 

Could  her  lost  purity  restore  ; 
And  still  she  wears  the  fatal  stain 

That  mars  her  beauty  evermore. 

Dresden,  Saxonv,   February,  1873. 


233 


^Ceii0NEIi:J^JIE3-P. -DrTIKE/ 


-^ — ci- 


[ROM  out  the  voiceless  chambers  of  the  Past, 
Where  time  has  buried  all  life's  brightest 

years, 
Memory  recalls  some  days,  not  overcast 
With   care   and   sorrow,  w^eariness  and 
tears. 
And  I  live  over  many  a  pleasant  hour, 
*       That  bears   the   fragrance   of  some  rare, 
sweet  flower 
Pluckt  from  the  tree  of    life  in  summer's 
bower. 


The  interests  of  the  Present  pass  away, 
And  that  which  was,  but  is  not,  seems  to 
be; 
Dead  hopes  revive,  old  thoughts   resume 
their  sway. 
And  by  the  soft,  uncertain  light  I  see 

234 


COLONEL  JAMES    P.    DRAKE. 

The  genial  faces  I  was  wont  to  meet, 

When  hope  was  new  and  life  was  fair  and  sweet, 

And  we  went  down  its  paths  with  buoyant  feet. 


Then,  once  again  I  meet  Jihee,  O  my  friend ! 

In  all  the  vigor  of  thy  manhood's  prime  ; 
Thy  face,  where  sympathy  and  goodness  blend, 

As  I  beheld  it  in  the  dear  old  time  ; 
And,  dreaming  on  in  Fancy's  Vision  Land, 
I  hear  thy  voice  in  greeting  kind  and  bland, 
And  feel  the  clasping  of  thy  friendly  hand. 


//. 


Methinks  we  speak  of  stirring  scenes  and  men 
That  are  not  found  to-day  upon  life's  stage ; 
Of  questions  and  opinions,  vital  when 

Time  told  the  measure  of  the  golden  age. 
When  mighty  Webster,  rare  Roanoke  and  Clay, 
Marshall,  Calhoun,  and  lesser  lights  than  they, 
Were  in  the  bright  meridian  of  their  day. 

An  age  of  gifted  men,  of  deeds  sublime, 

That  sowed  broadcast  along  the  world's  highway 

A  goodly  harvest,  for  all  coming  time, 

That  thousands,  millions,  reap  with  joy  to-day : 

When  broad,  young  States  from  savage  wilds  were 
won. 

Till  Freedom,  reaching  to  the  setting  sun. 

Threw  her  strong  arms  around  fair  Oregon. 

235 


COLONEL  JAMES    P.    DRAKE. 

When  f^ir  away  beneath  blue  Southern  skies, 
Where  brave  men  waged  a  fierce,  unequal  war, 

We  saw,  abov^e  the  battle  smoke,  arise 

The  blood-stained  banner  of  the  lonely  Star, 

And  heard  the  voice  of  kith  and  kindred  plead 

For  help,  protection,  in  their  hour  of  need. 

That  prayer  was  answered  well,  in  word  and  deed. 

And  in  that  self-devoted  Spartan  band, 

Who  pledged  their  lives  on  honor's  holy  shrine. 
To  rescue  from  its  thraldom  that  fair  land, 

There  was  no  braver  heart,  O  friend,  than  thine. 
Heaven  guarded  thee  through  dangers  dark  and  dire. 
By  land  and  sea,  and  w^ar's  baptismal  fire. 
And  brought  thee  home  unscathed  to  love's  desire. 

Men  reap  in  peace  the  harvest  sown  in  blood, 

Corn  grows  and  ripens  on  the  battlefield. 
And  children  play  where  once  the  bivouac  stood, 
With  bits  of  broken  lance  and  battered  shield ; 
The  deeds  of  gallant  men,  love's  parting  tears, 
Last,  fond  embraces,  grim  and  ghastly  fears 
Are  buried  in  the  graves  of  long-gone  years. 

And  in  the  bosom  of  a  pleasant  land. 

Where  fair  magnolias  drop  their  fragrant  snows, 
Thy  noble  heart  and  generous,  open  hand, 
.  Have  found  at  last  the  sweetness  of  repose. 
236 


COLONEL  JAMES   P.    DRAKE. 

Sleep  well  ;  thou  wilt  not  waken  till  the  dawn  ; 
But  while  the  hearts  that  knew  thee  best  beat  on, 
Fond  love  will  wake  to  weep  that  thou  art  gone. 

IV, 

No  hand  can  lift  the  shadow  from  thy  hearth, 
No  power  restore  the  sunshine  to  thy  door, 

Since  death  has  written,  over  all  the  earth, 
The  cruel  legend,  ''  Never,  nevermore  !" 

But  love,  immortal  love,  will  seek  its  own. 

And   those   whose   souls    to  thine,  thro'   years,  had 
grown. 

Will  find  thee  somewhere  in  the  great  unknown. 

It  is  not  long  to  wait ;  our  3'ears  are  few. 

Time  speeds  along  his  course  with  flying  feet. 
Naught  can  the  life  of  yesterday  renew, 

And  no  to-morrow  will  to-day  repeat. 
It  is  not  long  to  wait,  nor  far  to  go. 
Yet  to  the  lonely  ones  that  loved  thee  so, 
All  time,  all  space  is  full  of  weary  woe. 

Thy  pathway  lay  not  alwa3^s  in  the  light, 

But  come  what  would,  thy  great  undaunted  soul 

Was  tnie  to  its  conviction  of  the  right, 
As  the  magnetic  needle  to  the  pole. 

Thou  didst  not  learn  the  truth  from  seer  or  sage, 

From  cabalistic  lore  or  sacred  page ; 

It  w^as  thy  guiding  star  from  youth  to  age. 

237 


COLONEL  JAMES   P.    DRAKE. 

And  charity  was  of  thy  Hfe  a  part ; 

It  touched  and  tuned  the  fibers  of  thy  brain, 
Folded  its  snow-white  pinions  in  thy  heart, 

And  sung  to  thee,  alway,  love's  sweet  refrain. 
The  homeless  turned  to  thee  in  their  distress. 
The  helpless  widow  and  the  fatherless  ; 
The  stricken  aged  named  thee  but  to  bless. 

Beech  Bank,  September  i8,  1879. 


238 


^^  Jilai^NINevIl^ND :  6K :  lilFE.-i^^ 


i-^  DWELT  in  a  bright  land,  far  away — 

A  beautiful  morning  land, 
^  J      Where  the  winds  and  wild  birds  sung  all 
day. 
And  the  waves,  repeating  their  roundelay, 
Danced  over  the  golden  sand. 


,. ,.      I  know  the  paths  o'er  its  low,  green  hills, 
y  \  The  banks  where  its  violets  grow, 

The  osier  clumps  by  its  laughing  rills. 
And  the  odor  its  every  flower  distils. 
Though  I  left  it  long  ago. 

I  know  where  the  sibyl  Summer  weaves 

The  charm  of  her  sweetest  spell ; 
Where   the   soft  south  wind   and   the  low- 
voiced  leaves 
Make   a  toucliing  plaint,  like  a  sprite  that 
grieves 
In  the  heart  of  a  rose-lipped  shell. 

239 


i86i. 


MORNING  LAND   OF   LIFE. 

I  know  the  cliff  where  the  lichen  clings, 

And  the  crimson  berries  grow  ; 
Where  the  mists  are  woven  in  rainbow  rings, 
And  the  cascade  leaps  with  its  snowy  wings 

To  the  shadowy  pool  below. 

But,  alas  !  for  me  its  pleasant  bowers, 

And  the  radiant  bloom  they  wore, 
The  birds  that  sung,  and  the  sunny  showers 
That  kissed  the  lips  of  the  fair  young  flowers, 
Are  never,  nevermore ! 

Ah,  no  I  the  heart  that  has  learned  for  years, 

The  lore  of  sorrow  and  pain  ; 
The  eyes  bedimmed  by  time  and  tears. 
The  lips  grown  pale  with  unspoken  fears, 

Can  never  return  again. 

Yet,  Eden  home  of  the  Eden  time. 

When  my  lonel}'  heart  rebels. 
Thy  voices  come,  through  the  rust  and  rime 
Of  the  weary  world,  like  the  soothing  chime 

Of  distant  Sabbath  bells. 

And  when  my  path  in  the  future  seems 

With  clouds  and  darkness  rife, 
I  wander  away,  in  m\'  waking  dreams, 
To  thy  dewy  bowers  and  sunny  streams 

Sweet  Morning  Land  of  Life. 


240 


^^T6^J^R3.^1i0YE.•i:^ 


ON   RECEIVING    HER   PICTURE,    DECEMBER    25,    1 87 1 


HEN  I  met  thee,  gentle  lady,  in  the  days  of 

long  ago. 
This   world   of    ours    was    fairer    than    it 

seemeth  now,  I  trow. 
The  meadow  grass  was  greener,  the  sky  a 

deeper  blue. 
The  stars   in  the  heaven  were  brighter — 

brighter  every  drop  of  dew ; 
The  shining  rills  and  rivers  sung  a  softer 

melodie, 
As   they   went,    arrayed   in    diamonds,   to 

their  bridal  with  the  sea. 
The  birds  made  sweeter  singing  midst  the 

summer-scented  leaves. 
Richer   gold   and   crimson    curtains   hung 

around  the  dying  eves, 
The  winds   dropped  fonder  kisses  on  the 

lips  of  fairer  flowers. 


241 


M6 


TO   MRS.   LOVE. 

And  love  wove  richer  garlands  down  the  pathway  of  the 

hours  ; 
The  frosts  and  snows  of  winter  o'erflowed  with  joy  and 

glee  ; 
There  was  laughter  in  the  raindrops,  there  was  laughter 

in  the  sea. 
O  the  charm,  the  joy  of  living  in  the  glory  and  the  glow 
Of  the  days  we  left  behind  us,  in  the  bloom  of  long  ago ! 


The  future  may  be  pleasant,  but  it  never  can  repay 

The  freshness  and   the  beauty  that  the  past  has  swept 

away. 
We  may  understand  in  Heaven  all  life's  sorrow,  all  its 

cost ; 
We  may  find  amidst  the  angels,  the  angels  we  have  lost; 
But  will  they  wear  the  semblance  of  the  same  dear  forms 

they  wore 
When  they  faded  from  our  vision  to  the  bright  Elysian 

shore  ? 
Shall  we  know  them  by  their  voices,  by  their  faces  still  so 

dear? 
Will  they  clasp  our  hands  and  greet  us,  as  they  used  to 

greet  us  here  ? 
Faith  answers  to  my  yearning :     "In  some  blessed  world 

above. 
Thy  heart  shall  find  its  treasures,  by  the  instincts  of  its 

love." 

So,  in  God's  good  grace  believing.  1  trust  and  wander  on, 

Through  the  shadows  of  the  twilight,  to  the  glories  of  the 

dawn. 

242 


TO   MRS.    LOVE. 

But,  sometimes  in  my  dreaming,  comes  a  soft,  uncertain 

strain, 
Trembling  from  the  walls  of  heaven.     I  know  the  sweet 

refrain, 
And  seem  to  hear  the  footsteps  that  may  come  no  more 

below% 
And  listen  to  the  voices  of  the  happy  long  ago. 
Thus  my  weary  heart  is  cheated,  in  the  vision  land  of 

sleep, 
One  bright,    delicious    moment — but,  alas !    it   wakes    to 

w^eep. 
O,  the  sky  has  lost  its  sunshine,  the  stars  are  dim  and 

cold. 
And  the  world  to  me,  in  seeming,  is  growing  gray  and 

old. 
The  fancy  that  beguiled  me  wears  a  fetter  on  her  wing. 
And  the  harp  I  touched  to  music  once  has  many  a  broken 

string. 

But  thine,  O  gentle  lady,  is  a  brighter,  better  way ; 

The  hope  that  walked  beside  thee  down  the  flowery  paths 

of  May, 
Has  never  failed  or  fainted  in  the  radiant  hours  of  June, 
And  thy  life  has  had  few^  shadows  from  its  dawning  to  its 

noon. 
No  storm  has  dimmed  thy  spirit,  no  mildew^  stained  thy 

flow'ers, 
And  sweetest  birds  are  singing  still,  among  thy  summer 

bowers. 

Love   dwells  with  pleasant  duty,   peace   sits   beside  thy 

door ; 

243 


TO   MRS.    LOVE. 

The  past  is  bright  behind  thee,  the  future  bright  before. 
But  the  fairest  rose  that  bloometh  some  touch  of  bHght 

may  bear : 
The  lightest  heart  ©lay  sometimes  faint  beneath  unwonted 

care. 
Life's  sweetest  cup  is  mingled  with  bitterest  drops  of  gall, 
And  the  shadow  of  a  cloudlet  on  the  brightest  path  may 

fall. 
But  if  all   that   seemeth  lovely,  lofty,  tender,  pure  and 

good. 
Unselfish,  true  and  worshipful  in  full-orbed  womanhood, 
Might  win  the  fairest  human  lot  our  Father  could  assign, 
The  light,   the  joy,  the  paradise,   dear  lady,  would  be 

thine. 

Dresden,  Saxony,  January,  1872. 


244 


•>]^6M*fJFpE^B^I6PT^P0aR3*^6NW.' 


LESSON  beautiful,  sublime, 

And  worth  the  soul's  enshrining. 
Is  this  :     "  I  take  no  heed  of  time, 

Save  when  the  sun  is  shining." 
These  motto- words  a  dial  bore, 

And  wisdom  never  preaches 
To  human  hearts  a  better  lore 

Than  this  short  sentence  teaches. 
As  life  is  sometimes  bright  and  fair. 

And  sometimes  dark  and  lonely, 
Let  us  forget  its  pain  and  care, 

And  note  its  bright  hours  only. 

There  is  no  grove  on  earth's  broad  chart 
But  has  some  bird  to  cheer  it ; 

So  hope  sings  on  in  ever}-  heart, 
Altliough  we  may  not  hear  it. 

245 


NOTE  THE  BRIGHT  HOURS  ONLY. 

And  if  to-day  ihe  heav}'  wing 

Of  sorrow  is  oppressing, 
Perchance  to-morrow's  sun  will  bring 

The  weary  heart  a  blessing. 
For  life  is  sometimes  bright  and  fair. 

And  sometimes  dark  and  lonely  ; 
Then  let's  forget  its  toil  and  care, 

And  note  its  bright  hours  only. 

We  bid  the  joyous  moments  haste, 

And  then  forget  their  glitter  ; 
We  take  the  cup  of  life,  and  taste 

No  portion  but  the  bitter. 
But  we  should  teach  our  hearts  to  deem 

Its  sweetest  drops  the  strongest ; 
And  pleasant  hours  should  ever  seem 

To  linger  round  us  longest. 
As  life  is  sometimes  bright  and  fair, 

And  sometimes  dark  and  lonely, 
Let  us  forget  its  toil  and  care, 

And  note  its  bright  hours  only. 

The  darkest  shadows  of  the  night 

Are  just  before  the  morning. 
Then  let  us  wait  the  coming  light. 

All  boding  phantoms  scorning. 
And  while  we're  passing  on  the  tide 

Of  Time's  fast  ebbing  river. 
Let's  pluck  the  blossoms  by  its  side, 

And  bless  the  gracious  Giver. 
246 


NOTE  THE  BRIGHT  HOURS  ONLY. 

As  life  is  sometimes  bright  and  fair, 
And  sometimes  dark  and  lonely, 

We  should  forget  its  pain  and  care, 
And  note  its  bright  hours  only. 


Indianapolis. 


247 


mm 


^'FevJilRg.vWiiiiii^M :  J.  vBrown/ 


ON   HER   BIRTHDAY. 


Y  a  not  uncommon  freak  of  fate 

I  can  not  mend, 
Your  invitation  came  too  late 
To  enable  me,  in  proper  state. 
To  honor  the  day  you  celebrate, 

My  old-time  friend. 

It  would  do  no  good  to  fume  and  fret, 

To  pout  or  pine  ; 
But  for  many  a  day  I  shall  regret 
That  I  was  not  with  the  friends  who  met 
To  keep  your  birthday  fete — and  yet 

The  loss  was  mine. 

You  ha\'e  traveled  nearly  as  far  as  I 

On  life's  highway. 
We  met  when  our  summer  sun  was  high, 
248 


TO    MRS.   WILLIAM   J.    BROWN. 

The  promise  fair  for  a  cloudless  sky ; 
But  two-score  years  have  flitted  by 
Since  that  far  day. 

We  did  our  best,  in  those  old,  dead  years 

That  went  and  came  ; 
The  world  was  not,  as  it  now  appears, 
But  we  had  our  cares,  our  hopes  and  fears, 
Our  short-lived  joys  and  bitter  tears, 

Our  praise  and  blame. 

We  wrought  in  the  storm,  the  wintr}^^  blast 

And  burning  sun  ; 
Hoped  on,  when  our  sky  was  overcast, 
Clung,  on  the  wreck,  to  the  tottering  mast ; 
The  storm  is  spent  and  the  danger  past — 

But  what  is  won  ? 

The  loss,  too  surely,  outweighs  the  gain 

For  which  we  strove  ; 
Some  cherished  memories  still  remain. 
The  graves  we  made,  with  tears  and  pain, 
And  some  odd  links  of  the  broken  chain 

Of  household  love. 

But  the  dear  old  friends  have  nearly  all 

Now  passed  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  our  love's  recall ; 
Beyond  the  shadow,  beyond  the  thrall 
Of  the  countless  ills  that  needs  must  fall 

Along  life's  way. 
249 


TO    MRS.  WILLIAM   J.    BROWN. 

With  the  friends  we  won  in  the  paths  of  youth, 

Life's  brightness  ends  : 
We  tried  and  trusted  their  love  and  truth, 
But,  alas  !  for  love,  and  loss,  and  ruth. 
We  shall  find  their  like  no  more,  in  sooth — 

Age  makes  no  friends. 

We  know,  by  the  milestones  on  the  way 

We  twain  have  passed. 
And  eke  by  the  sunset's  lessening  ray, 
And  by  the  lengthening  shadows  gray, 
That  the  twilight  of  our  busy  day 

Is  falling  fast. 

Would  we  start  again  where  we  begun 

When  hope  was  high — 
Where  the  first  fair  thread  of  life  was  spun, 
In  the  rosy  light  of  the  morning  sun. 
And  strive  for  the  guerdon  we  have  won  ? 

So  would  not  L 

Our  lives  are  not  as  we  hoped  and  planned, 

In  good  and  gain, 
But  a  Father  leads  us  by  the  hand, 
Through  darkening  paths  of  the  evening-land, 
And  what  we  have  failed  to  understand 

He  will  make  plain. 

Beech  Bank,  Jani'aky  8,  1879. 


250 


'mmiTTnU  \x\t  \V\x\x\t\ 


^^♦^PI0NEER♦^§R?^NDMOTPER. 


LADY  sat  in  a  boudoir, 

In  a  costly  easy  chair, 
With  many  a  fold  of  dainty  lace 
Falling  around  her  aged  face, 

And  shading  her  snow-white  hair. 

Over  the  Gobelin  carpet. 

The  pictures  and  mirrors  bright, 
Tables  with  mother-of-pearl  inlaid. 
And  amber  curtains  of  rare  brocade, 
Trembled  a  golden  light. 

A  bird,  in  a  gilded  network. 
Was  singing  a  plaintive  strain, 

Of    murmuring     brooks    and    whispering 
breeze. 

Learned  far  awa}',  in  the  plantain  trees 
It  never  should  see  auain. 


25 


A   PIONEER   GRANDMOTHER. 

But  the  lady  sat  as  dreaming, 

Or  watching  the  embers'  glow. 
While  her  thoughts  went  back  through  many  years. 
To  the  loves  and  labors,  the  hopes  and  fears, 

Of  a  home  in  the  long  ago. 


And  again  she  lulled  her  baby 
To  sleep  at  the  close  of  day ; 
Prepared  her  husband's  evening  meal, 
252 


A  PIONEER   GRANDMOTHER. 

Then  filled  her  distaft'  and  turned  her  wheel 
Till  the  evening  stole  away. 


*' Grandmother,"  said  little  Cora, 

"Grandmother,  wh}^  do  you  sigh?" 
And  then,  as  she  stroked  the  wrinkled  face 
With  her  dimpled  hands  and  childish  grace, 
"  Was  you  ever  as  small  as  I  ? 


*'And  were  you  obliged  to  study 
Hard  lessons  the  livelong  day? 
And  did  3'our  governess  scold  and  frown 
Because  you  happened  to  tear  your  gown, 
Or  soil  your  hands  at  play? 


"And  if  you  ran  in  the  garden, 

Chasing  a  bird  or  bee, 
Was  she  sure  to  say,  '  O  naughty  girl ! 
You  have  tossed  your  hair  quite  out  of  curl ; 

You  shall  not  go  down  to  tea?' " 


"Come,  sit  you  down,  little  Cora, 
And  ril  tell  you  something  new. 
I  was  seventy-five  years  old  last  May, 
Yet  I  remember,  as  yesterday. 
When  I  was  as  small  as  you. 
253 


A  PIONEER   GRANDMOTHER. 

*'  We  lived  in  a  wild,  new  country, 

In  a  settlement  just  begun  ; 
My  best  was  a  linsey-woolsey  gown, 
And  my  hands  and  face  were  cherry  brown, 

With  working  in  wind  and  sun. 


*'  Our  home  was  a  rude  log  cabin. 
With  many  a  crack  and  patch  ; 
A  loft  and  a  poplar  puncheon  floor. 
An  earthen  hearth  and  a  clapboard  door, 
With  a  string  and  a  white-oak  latch. 

**  Our  one  little  oblong  window. 

Where  the  wind  and  the  sun  could  pass, 

Was  opened  and  shut  with  a  sliding  board ; 

For  a  pioneer  could  ill  aftbrd 
A  sash  frame,  putty  and  glass. 

'*  Without,  through  the  livelong  winter, 

Went  ringing  my  father's  ax  ; 
Within,  the  cards  and  warping-reel. 
The  flying  shuttle  and  spinning  wheel 

Sung  songs  to  the  wool  and  flax. 

**  We  children  worked  in  the  clearing, 

As  busy  as  bees,  all  da}'. 
Piling  and  burning  the  chips  and  brush — 
But  after  our  supper  of  milk  and  mush, 

Had  time  to  study  and  play 

254 


A  PIONEER   GRANDMOTHER. 

*'A  game  of  '  Puss  wants  a  corner,' 

In  the  shellbark  hickory  light, 
And  we  huddled  down  in  the  chimney  nook, 
With  our  one  old  slate  and  spelling  book, 

And  learned  to  read  and  to  write. 


"Then,  in  the  beautiful  springtime, 

Up  with  the  birds  at  morn  ; 
We  fed  the  chickens  and  milked  the  cows, 
Prepared  the  dmner  or  followed  the  plows, 

Dropping  and  covering  corn. 

"  But  O,  in  the  plenteous  harvest. 

In  the  summer's  golden  prime  ; 
When  we  bound  the  sheaves  or  raked  the  hay, 
And  hauled  it  home  at  the  close  of  day. 

We  had  the  merriest  time. 

"  I  married  a  brave,  young  farmer. 

With  neither  land  nor  gold, 
And  carded  my  fleeces,  spun  and  wove, 
In  my  humble  home,  a-light  with  love. 

Till  your  father  was  five  years  old. 

**  Since  then,  by  chances  and  changes. 

No  thought  of  mine  had  planned, 
I  floated  up,  on  the  tide  of  fate. 
To  the  plane  of  those  who  live  in  state. 
And  rule  with  a  golden  wand. 

255 


A   PIONEER  GRANDMOTHER. 

**But  my  heart,  with  a  weary  longing, 
Turned  from  palace,  hearth  and  hall, 
To  the  cabin  home,  with  its  simple  ways, 
And  the  honest  love  of  the  dear  old  days- 
The  happiest  days  of  all. 

"  For  the  sphere  we  live  in,  darling, 

Like  the  beautiful  world  of  art. 
Has  faultless  coloring,  taste  and  tone — 
And  faultless  forms  in  marble  stone, 
But  rarely  a  human  heart." 

Beech  Bank,  March  14,  1874. 


256 


^Te  :IlI5^5^IiE :  BhP^IS5?Ev]^ITZIN6ER. 


<sITTLE  dimpled  form  and  face. 
Folded  now  in  love's  embrace, 
Who  thy  horoscope  can  trace? 


Eyes  as  darkly,  brightly  blue 
As  twin  pansies,  wet  with  dew, 
When  the  morning  sun  shines  through. 


& 


^  Baby  brow,  so  smooth  and  fair, 
Fringed  about  with  silken  hair ; 
Dainty  lips,  like  rosebuds  rare. 

Tiny,  tender  hands  and  feet, 
White  as  lilies  and  as  sweet ; 
Little  heart  that  has  not  beat 

One  whole  year  among  the  flowers. 
Summer  sunshme,  winter  showers, 
Of  this  shadowy  land  of  ours. 

257 


/5-17 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE   RITZINGER. 

Where  thy  future  lot  shall  be, 
What  the  years  will  bring  to  thee, 
Nor  sage  nor  sibyl  can  foresee. 

Though  thy  pathway  may  be  fair, 
None  are  free  from  toil  and  care ; 
Every  soul  has  much  to  bear. 

Last  fair  scion  of  thy  race, 
Though  thine  eyes  may  never  trace 
Love-light  on  thy  father's  tace, 

•  Happy  that  thou  art  his  son. 
Strive  to  do  as  he  has  done. 
And  achieve  the  meed  he  won. 

Bearer  of  the  same  sweet  name. 

Heir  to  his  unsullied  fame, 

More  than  this  thou  scarce  could "st  claim. 

Not  in  seeming,  but  in  sooth. 
Lay  the  cornerstone  of  Truth, 
In  the  building  of  thy  }outh. 

Learn  whatever  man  may  learn  ; 
Speech  embod}-,  thought  discern. 
Where  the  lamps  of  science  burn  : 

That  thy  manhood  may  be  grand. 
Not  as  builded  on  the  sand. 
But  a  tower  of  strength  to  stand. 

258 


LITTLE   Bx\PTISTE   RITZINGER. 

Stand  in  majesty  and  might 
For  the  good,  the  true,  the  right, 
Guiding  others  by  its  Hght. 

Store  thy  mind  with  treasures  rare  ; 
Train  thy  heart  and  hand  to  bear ; 
Work  awaits  thee  everywhere. 

There  are  lands  no  eye  hath  seen ; 
Seas  where  man  has  never  been  ; 
Boundless  harvest  fields  to  glean. 

There  are  songs  no  lip  has  sung ; 
Facts  untaught  by  human  tongue  ; 
Mines  of  golden  thought  unspiomg. 

There  are  planes  and  heights  sublime. 
Where  no  foot  has  dared  to  climb. 
In  the  metes  and  bounds  of  time. 

There  is  warp  and  woof  to  weave ; 
Truth  from  error  to  retrieve  ; 
Much  for  brave  hearts  to  achieve. 

Much  to  do  in  word  and  deed. 
By  the  sowers  of  good  seed ; 
Men  of  whom  the  world  has  need. 

Little,  dainty  human  flower. 
Shielded  now  from  sun  and  shower, 
Child  of  love  in  love's  own  bower ; 

259 


LITTLE   BAPTISTE   RITZINGER. 

These  strange  words  I  write  to  thee, 
All  unbidden  came  to  me, 
In  poetic  prophecy. 

Thou  may'st  find  their  meaning  when, 
Eloquent  of  tongue  and  pen, 
Thou  shalt  help  thy  fellow -men. 

Help  them  to  receive  their  sight 
Who  are  w^alking  in  the  night 
Or  in  dim,  uncertain  light. 

Beech  Bank,  June  i8,  1878. 


Q)     e) 


260 


^^InY6(3^5^I0]V[. 


3|5^" 


OME  to  me,  gentle  muse.     Hast  thou  forsaken 

The  heart  that  trembled  in  thy  smile  so 

long? 

Come,    touch    my   spirit   harp-strings,  and 

awaken 

The  spell,  the  soul,  the  witchery  of  song. 


Too   long   have    I    been   bound    in    care's 
dominion; 
^  Thou,  only  thou,  canst  break  the  strong 

5  control  ; 

J  Come,  with   thv   radiant  brow   and    starry 

*^V^  pinion. 

And  bring  again  the  sunlight  to  my  soul. 


26  r 


INVOCATION. 

Come  to  me.     Life  is  all  too  dark  and  dreary 
When  thou,  my  guiding  spirit,  art  not  near ; 

Come — I  have  sought  thee  till  my  heart  is  wear}.^ 
And  still  I  watch  and  wait — appear,  appear ! 

Come  to  me  when  the  star-gems  are  adorning 
The  sable  curtains  of  the  midnight  sky  ; 

Come,  when  Aurora  decks  the  halls  of  morning 
With  gorgeous  folds  of  crimson  tapestry. 

Come  to  me  w^hen  the  fervid  sun  is  glowing 
In  noontide  splendor  over  hill  and  glade ; 

Come — I  will  meet  thee  where  cool  streams  are  flowing 
In  tranquil  beauty  through  the  forest  shade. 

Come  to  me  in  the  purple  gloom  of  even. 

When  flowers  are  sleeping  on  the  green  earth's  breast ; 
When  peace  hath  spread  her  wing  o'er  earth  and 
Heaven, 

And  zephyr  sighs  not  in  his  dreamless  rest. 

Come,  let  us  wander  in  a  world  ideal. 

Where  Eden's  bowers  are  given  to  our  sight, 

And  forms  too  bright,  too  glorious  to  be  real, 
People  a  world  of  loveliness  and  light. 


•^-^cr^ 


262 


■<   ^      4    ^      4    >■      <► 


1 


7^  ri  r^  'Tf  7", 

-^  •        >^  ▼  V  V 


y^"'i;=i5iifi^ 


"2-|*3li^NDE^.$^ 


-^ — ^ — 


t 


HE  hoary  frost  may  touch  with  chilling  fin- 
^  ger 

The  fairest  flower  that  blooms  beneath 
the  skies, 
And  leave  a  mildew  on  its  breast  to  linger, 
Despoiling  all  the  radiance  of  its  dyes. 
The  dew's  pure  tears,  the  gentle  zeph^^r's 
sighs. 
Are  powerless  to  obliterate  the  stain. 

It  sears  and  cankers,  till  the  blossom  lies 
A  wreck  of  faded  beaut}^  on  the  plain. 
Never   to   glad   the   earth  with   its   sweet 
breath  again. 

//. 

And  thus  it  is  with  woman's  reputation — 
Her    brightest    ornament,    her     richest 
dower, 
A  breath,  a  little  word  of  defamation, 
263 


SLANDER. 

Though  spoken  in  a  whisper,  has  the  power 
To  blight  it  as  the  frost  may  bhght  the  flower ; 
To  hush  the  voice  of  love,  whose  magic  tone 
Could  cheer  her  spirit  in  its  saddest  hour ; 
To  dim  the  star  that  o'er  her  pathwa}-  shone. 
And  leave  her  broken  heart  all  desolate  and  lone. 

No  life  is  free  from  faults — to  err  is  human ; 

But  what  in  man  is  scarcely  deemed  offense, 
The  w^orld  condemns  as  heinous  in  a  woman. 

Gossip  awakens,  straining  soul  and  sense. 

And  goaded  on  to  madness  by  suspense. 
Weaves  wonders  in  her  tissue,  day  by  day, 

Till  curiosity  becomes  intense 
To  know^  the  time,  the  manner  and  the  way, 
That  some  frail  human  heart  was  wiled  and  led  astray. 


IV. 


Perchance  the  tattler,  busily  retailing 

Vile  namors,  viler  hints,  designs  to  show  ^ 
In  the  broad  light  of  some  one  one's  fault  or  failing, 

Himself,  as  pure  and  spotless  as  the  snow. 

Alas,  for  human  weakness — is  this  so? 
How  can  the  tree  be  good  that  bears  such  fruit? 

Can  bitter  water  from  sweet  fountains  flow? 

These  test,  no  sophisuy  cm  e'er  refute, 

And  they  should  speak  aloud,  to  keep  the  slanderer 

mute. 

264 


SLANDER. 


V. 


Alas,  how  many  a  burning  tear  has  started, 

How  many  a  life-drop  from  the  heart  been  wrung ; 
How  many  a  woman,  pure  and  gentle-hearted, 

Has  died  of  poison  from  a  slanderous  tongue ! 

It  clings  to  high  and  low,  to  old  and  young ; 
It  breathes  from  lips  as  fair  as  opening  flowers ; 

Then  is  it  like  the  serpent  hid  among 
The  fragrance  and  the  bloom  of  Eden's  bowers. 
An  angel  clothed  in  Hght,  with  Satan's  hellish  powers. 


F/. 


O,  for  the  blessed  charity  that  smothers 

The  tares  our  selfishness  has  blindly  sown. 
That  leads  us,  when  we  scan  the  lives  of  others. 

To  look  within  and  sci*utinize  our  own. 

If  all  our  feelings,  thoughts  and  deeds  were  known, 
How  would  we  steal  away  with  crimson  shame. 

Like  those  of  old,  who  dared  not  cast  a  stone 
On  the  frail  creature  who  incurred  their  blame, 
Knowing   their   hearts  were  worse  than  her's  they 
would  defame. 

F//. 

None  but  the  Omniscient  Eye,  the  Eye  All-seeing 
From  man's  creation  to  his  destined  end. 

Can  judge  impartially  a  human  being. 

Or  tell  the  goal  to  which  his  footsteps  tend. 
265 


SLANDER. 

We  only  know  that  good  and  evil  blend 
In  human  hearts,  like  mingled  light  and  shade ; 

That  all  have  faults  and  foibles  to  amend. 
Then  let  us  cease  to  censure  and  upbraid, 
And  give  the  weak  support,  encouragement  and  aid. 


266 


^Te^Jiligg^Iieii^JiI.^^^NKiN. 


OUR  present  to  me  shall  a  souvenir  be, 

A  treasure,  a  charm,  with  sweet  memo- 
ries fraught ; 
In  its  rose-hues  I  trace  the  blush  on  your 
face, 
When  it  lights  from  the  soul  with  beauti- 
ful thought. 

Its  pearls,  gleaming  bright,  on  a  ground  lily 
white, 
Are    symbols    of   purity,    goodness    and 
truth; 
And  its  figure  and  air,  so  graceful  and  fair, 
Remind    me   of  gentleness,    beauty  and 
youth. 

As  daint}^  it   seems,  as  if  wrought  of  the 
dreams 
That  come  when  the  brain  fails  its  empire 
to  keep, 
267 


MISS   LOU   M.   RANKIN. 

And  Fancy  alone  takes  her  seat  on  the  throne, 

With  scepter  and  crown,  in  the  kingdom  of  sleep. 


O  what  shall  I  say,  that  would  ever  repay 

This  offering  of  friendship,  unselfish  and  true? 

I've  nothing  to  bring,  save  the  poor  song  I  sing ; 
But  pray  let  me  tell  you  what  fain  I  would  do : 


If  I  were  the  king  of  some  island,  where  Spring 

Keeps  her  brow  ever  white  and  her  heart  ever  green. 

In  the  freshness  and  sweetness  of  beauty's  completeness, 
I'd  crown  you  with  myrtle  and  make  you  my  queen. 


I  would  build  you  a  bower  of  every  fair  flower 
That  gives  out  its  odorous  w^ealth  to  the  air ; 

Where  the  troubadour  breeze,  coming  in  from  the  seas, 
Would  kiss  your  fair  brow  and  caress  your  brown  hair. 


I  would  carpet  its  floors  and  curtain  its  doors 
With  the  radiant  banners  that  hang  in  the  skies ; 

That  hang  far  away,  where  the  slumberous  day, 
Like  a  king  on  his  couch,  in  the  purple  light  dies. 


There,  care  should  not  borrow  a  thought  of  the  morrow, 
Nor  dream  of  the  past,  or  the  future  annoy, 

But  elegant  leisure  and  innocent  pleasure 
Should  bury  each  day  in  a  cycle  of  joy. 
268 


MISS   LOU   M.    RANKIN. 

The  murmur  of  rills,  stealing  down  from  the  hills, 
Should  lull  you  to  slumber  delicious  and  hght, 

While  the  waves,  hand  in  hand,  knelt  down  in  the  sand, 
And  worshipped  the  stars  in  the  chambers  of  night. 

Beech  Bank,  March  6,  1876. 


269 


^^-*^M 


-^^ 


►^Iiiee'^+Chtinses. 


*« 

-*»► 


EARS  agone,  when  flowers  were  flinging 
Fragrance  over  vale  and  hill, 

Sat  a  maiden  in  a  bower, 

At  the  starry  twilight  hour  ; 

Music  from  her  soul  was  winging, 
Merry  as  a  wild-bird's  trill. 

In  my  dreams  I  hear  her  singing 
Like  a  minstrel  angel  still. 

Never,  in  a  poet's  trances, 

Gleamed  a  creature  half  so  fair 

As  that  gentle  girl  reclining 

Where  the  blossom-boughs  were  twining, 

Pounng  out  her  radiant  fancies. 
Like  sweet  odors  on  the  air; 

Never  did  the  old  romances 
Paint  a  face  and  form  so  rare. 
2^0 


LIFE'S   CHANGES. 

While  she  sung  the  raven  lashes 
Half-concealed  her  azure  eyes, 

And  the  htful  light  of  feeling 

To  her  fair  young  cheek  came  stealing, 

Like  the  sunlight  when  it  flashes 
Softly  from  the  summer  skies — 

Like  the  sunlight  when  it  flashes 
Where  a  pleasant  shadow  lies. 

Seemed  her  lips  like  rosebuds  showing 

Crimson  leaves  but  half  unfurled  ; 
And  like  midnight  shadows  darkling, 
Where  the  spotless  snow  lies  sparkling. 
O'er  her  neck  and  bosom  flowing, 

Raven  ringlets  curled. 
Oh  !  she  was  too  pure,  too  glowing. 
For  a  sad  and  weary  world. 

//. 

Young  and  happy  hearts  were  meeting, 

In  an  ancient  vaulted  hall, 
Where  the  radiant  light  was  beaming, 
Where  the  sparkling  wine  was  streaming. 
And  the  fairy  moments  fleeting — 

Fleeting  free  from  sorrow's  thrall ; 
Holy  love  was  fondly  cheating 

Life  in  that  ancestral  hall. 

There  a  brow  was  bound  with  roses, 

Pure  and  spotless  as  the  snow  : 
There  the  sacred  vo\\'S  were  spoken — 

271 


LIFE'S  'CHANGES. 

Vows  that  must  remain  unbroken 
Till  the  busy  journey  closes 

On  the  pilgrim  path  below, 
Till  the  weary  heart  reposes 

From  its  throbs  of  joy  and  woe. 

There  was  sorrow,  there  was  sighing, 

By  a  darkened  cottage  hearth  : 
Sorrow  for  a  treasure  given 
To  its  resting-place  in  Heaven ; 
Sorrow  for  a  blossom  dying, 

Dying  almost  at  its  birth  ; 
Bitter  wailing,  weary  sighing, 

Ye  are  voices  of  the  earth. 

There  a  stricken  mother,  weeping, 

Sat  beside  a  cradle  bed. 
Where  an  infant  lay,  in  seeming, 
Hushed  to  quiet  rest,  and  dreaming 
Dreaming  of  the  angels  keeping 

Vigil  there,  with  silent  tread. 
Will  it  ever  wake  from  sleeping? 

Not  till  God  awakes  the  dead. 

IV. 

Years  went  by,  and  I  was  wending 

Through  a  churchyard's  deepening  gloom, 
On  a  pleasant  summer  even, 
When  the  starlight  catfic  from  Heaven, 
272 


LIFE'S   CHANGES. 

Like  a  gentle  spirit  tending 
Fairy  blossoms  in  their  bloom  : 

And  I  saw  a  woman  bending 
By  a  willow-shaded  tomb. 

In  her  tresses,  closely  braided, 
Mingled  many  a  thread  of  white ; 

And  her  brow,  once  bright  with  gladness, 

Wore  the  starless  gloom  of  sadness  ; 

Lip  and  cheek  were  withered,  faded — 
Faded  by  the  spirit's  blight ; 

Long  and  raven  lashes  shaded 
Eyes  no  longer  glad  and  bright. 

Death,  the  ruthless  one,  had  riven 

Every  kind  and  kindred  tie. 
Every  blessed  hope  adorning 
Life's  all-bright,  bewitching  morning, 
One  by  one  to  dust  were  given. 

As  the  weary  years  went  by  ; 
Not  a  trust  had  she  but  Heaven, 

Not  a  longing  but  to  die. 


And  that  faded  widow,  keeping 

Vigil  by  the  graves  alone. 
Was  the  lovely  maiden  singing 
Where  the  blossom-boughs  were  clinging — 
Was  the  bride  with  pulses  leaping 

Free  to  love's  delicious  tone — 

273  M8 


LIFE'S   CHANGES. 

Was  the  childless  mother^  weeping 
O'er  the  hopes  that  Death  had  strown. 

These,  I  said  to  Death  and  Sorrow, 
Are  the  changes  ye  can  bring. 

Death  replied:   ''Poor,  finite  mortal, 

I  unclose  the  blessed  portal 

Of  a  bright  and  glorious  morrow, 
Of  a  never-fading  spring ; 

And  the  light  that  Faith  may  borrow 
Ever  robs  me  of  m}^  sting." 

Sorrow  answered  to  my  chiding. 

While  the  tear-drops  filled  her  eyes : 
'*  Though  I  make  life's  pathway  dreary, 
Till  the  human  soul  grows  weary, 
'Tis  that  sinful  hearts,  confidmg 

In  their  idol. gods,  may  rise 
To  the  blessedness  abiding. 
Never-ending,  in  the  skies." 


Indianapolis,  August,  1849. 


274 


^^IN*^JlIEM0^I^M.*^ 


JOSEPH   V.    LINGLE. 


the  sea  of  life  sails  many  a  bark 
Freighted  with  sorrow  and  pain. 

And  they  still  sail  on,  thro'  storm  and  dark, 
For  Httle  of  good  or  gain. 

But  a  beautiful  ship,  with  pennants  bright. 

From  the  harbor  sailed  a  way, 
When  the  sea  reflected  the  golden  light 

Of  a  cloudless  summer  day. 

It  was  manned  with  Aspirations  high, 
And  the  radiant  Hope  of  youth, 

With  Genius,  Honor  and  Purit}', 
And  the  captain's  name  was  Tmth. 

It  sailed  away  with  a  precious  freight. 
And  promise  of  great  renown.  * 

Alas  !  for  the  stern  decrees  of  fate. 
The  beautiful  ship  went  down  ! 

275 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

Went  down,  O  God,  in  a  summer  sea, 

With  never  a  wave  to  fret — 
When  a  favoring  wind  was  fair  and  free, 

And  the  snowy  sails  all  set. 

Went  down  in  the  sight  of  the  loving  eyes 
And  the  hearts  that  yearned  to  save  ; 

From  the  rosy  light  of  morning  skies 
To  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 

And  the  soiTow-freighted  barks  sail  on, 
Through  storm  and  blinding  spray  ; 

God  only  knows  why  that  fairest  one 
Went  down  in  the  sea  that  day. 

He  only  knovveth  to  count  the  cost 
Of  the  priceless  wealth  it  bore. 

And  what  the  living  and  loving  lost, 
That  time  can  never  restore. 


Beech  Bank,  April  3,  1880. 


"K^' 


276 


f"^!^"*^ 


•5*P;9DDIiE :  YgOR  :  0  WN  •  ChNOE. 


O YAGER  upon  life's  sea, 

To  yourself  be  true, 
And  where'er  your  lot  may  be. 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 
Never,  though  the  winds  may  rave, 

Falter  nor  look  back  ; 
But  upon  the  darkest  wave 

Leave  a  shining  track. 

Nobly  dare  the  wildest  storm, 

Stem  the  hardest  gale  : 
Brave  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm, 

You  will  never  fail. 
When  the  w^orld  is  cold  and  dark, 

Keep  an  aim  in  view, 
And  toward  the  beacon  mark 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 


277 


PADDLE  YOUR  OWN  CANOE. 

Every  wave  that  bears  you  on 

To  the  silent  shore, 
From  its  sunny  source  has  gone 

To  return  no  more. 
Then  let  not  an  hour's  delay 

Cheat  you  of  your  due  ; 
But,  while  it  is  called  to-day, 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

If  your  birth  denied  you  wealth, 

Lofty  state  and  power ; 
Honest  fame  and  hardy  health 

Are  a  better  dower. 
But  if  these  will  not  suffice, 

Golden  gain  pursue  ; 
And,  to  win  the  glittering  prize. 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Would  you  wrest  the  wreath  of  fame 

From  the  hand  of  fate? 
Would  you  write  a  deathless  name 

With  the  good  and  great? 
Would  you  bless  your  fellow-men? 

Heart  and  soul  imbue 
With  the  holy  task,  and  then 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Would  you  crush  the  tyrant  wrong, 

In  the  world's  free  fight? 
With  a  spirit  brave  and  strong, 

Battle  for  the  right ; 
278 


PADDLE  YOUR  OWN  CANOE. 

And  to  break  the  chains  that  bind 

The  man}'  to  the  few, 
To  enfranchise  shivish  mind — 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 

Nothing  great  is  lightly  won  ; 

Nothing  won  is  lost  ; 
Every  good  deed^  nobly  done^ 

Will  repay  the  cost. 
Leave  to  Heaven^  in  humble  trust. 

All  you  will  to  do ; 
But  if  you  succeed^  you  must 

Paddle  your  own  canoe. 


Washington,  D.  C,  1853. 


279 


^^NI0N*^Fel^EYER. 


JAIR  banner  of  our  native  land, 

Shall  th}'-  proud  stars  and  stripes  be  riven 
By  faction's  voice  and  treason's  hand? 

No,  no  ;  forbid  it,  Heaven  ! 
Forbid  it,  ye  who  bravely  hurled 

Defiance  at  the  oppressor's  ban, 
And  won  for  this  broad  Western  World 

Freedom,  the  rights  of  man. 
Forbid  it,  ye  who  proudly  reap 

The  harvest  sown  by  patriot,  sage ; 
Show  to  all  time  that  ye  can  keep. 

Unstained,  your  glorious  heritage. 
Speak,  children  of  the  brave  and  free ; 
Speak  out  and  let  your  watchword  be 
Union  forever ! 


280 


UNION   FOREVER. 

By  eveiy  pallid  face  that  turns 

From  burdens  it  can  bear  no  more  ; 
By  ever}"  wear}"  heart  that  yearns 

To  find  a  home  on  Freedom's  shore  ; 
By  every  high  and  hoary  throne 

Where  tyranny's  red  banner  waves  ; 
By  every  bitter  tear  and  groan 

Of  Europe's  fair-browed  slaves  ; 
By  common  interest,  kindred  ties ; 

By  every  altar,  home  and  hearth  : 
By  all  you  cherish,  all  you  prize — 

The  hope  of  heaven,  the  peace  of  earth ; 
Speak,  children  of  the  brave  and  free — 
Speak  out,  and  let  your  watchword  be 
Union  forever ! 

Now  is  the  time  for  action  I     Tread 

The  path  our  country's  fathers  trod ; 
Guard  well  the  shrine  to  which  it  led, 

And  leave  the  rest  to  God, 
Trusting  that  his  Almighty  Power 

Will  stay  the  rage  of  faction's  might, 
Roll  back  the  clouds  that  o'er  us  lower. 

And  say  :  "  Let  there  be  light !  " 
Now  is  the  time  for  action — strike  ! 

Not  in  hot  wrath,  with  flashing  swords. 
But  be  }'our  warfare  Christian-like, 

Your  weapons,  soothing  words. 
Let  every  land  and  ever}-  sea 
Echo  the  watchword  of  the  free, 
Union  fore\'er  I 
281 


UNION   FOREVER. 

Shall  old  despotic  throne  and  crown, 

Rejoicing,  see  the  accursed  hour 
That  dims  forever  the  renown 

Of  fair  Columbia's  power? 
Shall  the  mute  suffering,  voiceless  woe, 

And  the  w^hite  faces  of  the  slain. 
Who  died  for  freedom  long  ago. 

Appeal  to  you  in  vain  ? 
No  !  by  their  memories  proud  and  grand, 

By  all  that  makes,  by  all  that  mars 
The  growing  greatness  of  our  land. 

Part  not  the  stripes  and  stars  ! 
But  speak,  speak  out,  till  land  and  sea 
Repeat  the  watchword  of  the  free, 
Union  forever  ! 

Indianapolis,  March,  1861. 


^^JOJK- 


282 


^J^HNDeDPp-f^^^PPENT^WCpE/ 


J«£L 


HE  summer  has  returned  again  to  nurse  the 
fair  young  flowers ; 
The  birds  that  sung  to  thee  last  year,  sing 

in  the  same  green  bowers ; 
The  sweet  wind  from  the  sunny  South  sighs 
where  it  used  to  kiss  thee  ; 
€      Thou  w^ert  akin  to  these  bright  things,  and 
well,  I  ween,  they  miss  thee. 


And  now,   when  Nature's  gentle  heart  in 

life  renewed  rejoices, 
Perchance  they  woo  and  call  thee  back  with 

their  harmonious  voices ; 
But  all  in  vain  they  woo  and  call  at  rosy 

morn  or  even, 
There  is  no  loveliness  on  earth  to  win  thee 

back  from  Heaven. 


283 


RANDOLPH   STEPHEN   ROACHE. 

The  hearts  that  break  and  bleed  for  thee  with  tender, 
speechless  yearning ; 

The  eyes  that  only  wake  to  weep  look  not  for  thy  return- 
ing. 

To  them  the  day  dawns  drearily,  the  evening  hours  move 
slower, 

The  voices  of  the  winds  and  waves  sing  sadder  songs  and 
lower. 

They  meet   familiar  faces   by  the   home-hearth  brightly 

glowing, 
But  miss  a  form,  a  footstep,  that  was  ever  coming,  going ; 
And    they   try   to    still    old    memories — alas,    the    vain 

endeavor ! 
The  rooms,  the  board,  the  hearthstone  are  empty,  and 

forever. 


This  world  has  need  of  such  as  thou — true,  generous, 

nobly  daring — 
To  lighten  burdens  fainter  hearts  and  feebler  hands  are 

bearing ; 
To  till  its  lofty  places,  guide  the  wayward,  lift  the  lowly. 
And  sow  the  seeds  of  truth  and  right,- where  goodness 

ripens  slowly. 

But  could  we   see  thee  as  thou  art,  in  thine  immortal 

beauty, 
And  comprehend  thy  larger  work,  thy  grander  field  of 

duty, 

284 


RANDOLPH    STEPHEN   ROACHE. 

Thy  gifted  soul  developing,  expanding,  growing  stronger. 
We  should  not  weep  and  vainly  wish  thine  earth-life  had 
been  longer. 

Longer  to  suffer,  weep  and  w^ait,  to  reap  and  garner  sor- 
row% 

To  count  the  dreams  of  yesterday,  the  pledges  of  to- 
morrow, 

To  struggle  for  some  gilded  prize  not  w^orth  the  toil  of 
winning ; 

To  w^aste  along  life's  weary  w^ay  the  wealth  of  its  begin- 
ning. 

We  should  rejoice  that  thou  wert  saved  ere  life  had  lost  its 

brightness. 
Ere  time  and  care  had  dwarfed  thy  soul,  or  sin  had  stained 

its  whiteness  ; 
But  in  our  human  tenderness,  and  in  our  mortal  blindness. 
We  can  not  see  thy  glorious  gain  through  God's  unerring 

kindness. 

And  in  the  shadow-  of  thy  home,  Hope  veils  her  face  and 

falters. 
While  weeping  Love  tries  vainly  to  rebuild  her  broken 

altars  : 
But  Mercy  holds  the  bitter  cup   a   Father's   hand   hath 

given, 
And  Faith  stands  pointing  up  to  thee,  safe  by  the  throne 

of  Heaven. 

Indianapolis,  June,  1868. 

285 


^We  JillJSS  JlI^RY  LOYE^ 


S  there  aught  of  bright  and  fair, 
Gentle,  tender,  pure  and  rare, 

Bewitching,  faiiy. 
On  the  earth  or  in  the  air, 
M    That  my  fancy  might  compare 
To  thee,  sweet  Mary? 

Not  the  rich  and  regal  rose, 
In  whose  heart  the  nectar  flows 

For  every  comer ; 
Nor  that  flower  wliich  only  blows 
On  the  breast  of  Alpine  snows. 

Unknown  to  Summer ; 


Not  the  odor-freighted  breeze. 
Wooing  sweets  from  tropin  tnrs, 
With  fond  caressing ; 
286 


MISS   MARY   LOVE. 

Nor  the  sunshine  on  the  seas — 
Ne'ertheless  thou  art  Hke  these, 
A  joy,  a  blessing. 


Beech  Bank,  1880. 


287 


Jl^^^  /p^^^^  Jlr^.  ^ 


^^Dl6D^¥I.W 


)s 


HAVE  seen  thee,  Diodati ; 

I  have  wandered  in  thy  bowers ; 
L  I  have  mused  in  the  cool  shadows 

Of  thy  venerable  pines  ; 
Have  inhaled,  in  starry  twilight, 

The  sweet  fragrance  of  thy  flowers. 
And  listened  to  thy  voices, 

O  most  beautiful  of  shrines  ! 


In  a  fair  and  fertile  valley. 

Cradled  in  by  snow-capped  mountains, 
Thou  art  sleeping  in  the  sunshine 

Of  a  cloudless  summer  sW  ; 
While  the  gallant,  graceful  Leman, 

Gathering  up  thv  sparkling  fountains, 
Kneels  at  th}-  feet  and  worships. 

With  his  glorious  minstrelsy. 

•■^Thc   residence  of   Lord   Byron   m   1816.   where  he  wrote 
"  Manfred,"  and  the  third  canto  of     Childe  Harold." 

288 


DIODATI. 

I  have  revelled  in  thy  beauty 

Till  my  very  soul  is  laden  : 
But  grander,  higher  interests 

To  thee  and  thine  belong  ; 
For  thou  wert  the  home  of  genius, 

Thou  hast  been  a  poet's  Aidenn, 
And  thy  groves,  to  me,  seem  vocal 

With  the  glory  of  his  song. 

He  has  dreamed  sweet  dreams  of  beauty 

'Neath  these  summer-garnished  arches  ; 
He  has  seen  the  radiant  visions 

Which  poetic  fancy  weaves  ; 
He  has  heard  the  night-wind  singing 

In  the  green  glooms  of  these  larches. 
And  caught  the  soft  responses 

Of  the  trembling,  low-voiced  leaves. 

He  beheld,  from  this  same  terrace, 

Clouds  and  darkness,  lake  and  mountains, 
Lightnings,  winds  and  waters  revelling, 

With  a  fierce,  terrific  mirth  : 
Heard  the  voices  of  the  thunder. 

And  the  laughter  of  the  fountains, 
Pealing  out  as  if  rejoicing 

Over  '*  a  young  earthquake's  birth." 

He  could  see  the  giant  Jura, 

With  his  head  so  high  and  hoary, 

Wrapped  away  in  folded  shadows 
On  the  bosom  of  the  niijht : 

289  /■-.19 


DIODATI. 

Or  encircled  with  far  flashes 

Of  a  wild  and  ghosdy  glor}', 
As  the  watchfires  of  the  storm-king 

Blazed  aloft,  from  crag  and  height. 

Clouds  and  tempest,  winds  and  waters, 

Ere  the  morning's  dawn  ceased  raging, 
And  the  lovely  face  of  nature 

Was  unsullied  by  a  scar ; 
But  the  mad,  ungoverned  passions 

In  that  poet's  heart  kept  waging 
With  life  and  with  humanity 

A  longer,  wilder  war. 

Thou  hast  seen  him,  Diodati, 

With  his  cold  and  haughty  bearing ; 
With  his  nobly  gifted  spirit. 

Tortured  by  its  self-made  strife, 
Worshipping  some  earth-born  idol. 

Of  the  good  and  true  despairing, 
Till  he  mingled  deadly  poison 

In  his  bitter  cup  of  life. 

Yet  he  loved  and  sought  the  praises 

Of  the  world  he  shunned  and  hated, 
And  his  soul,  though  all  perverted, 

Was  aglow  with  starry  thought ; 
With  feeling,  power  and  passion, 

He  adorned  and  he  created, 
And  beautified  life's  pathway 

With  the  gems  his  genius  wrought. 
290 


DIODATI. 

He  has  left  no  trace,  no  footprints, 

In  thy  paths  so  often  threaded ; 
There  is  neither  shrine  nor  tablet 

Here,  engraven  with  his  name  ; 
But  the  least  of  thy  surroundings 

To  the  world's  great  heart  is  wedded, 
And  thy  marble  walls  will  perish 

Long  before  his  glorious  fame. 


Geneva,  November,  1855. 


291 


^^4^  ^^^^f'^^A^ 


^j^i  u  1 1 1 J 1 1 1 :  I  i  u  1 1 1  -t  I 


^'F©  ^P]R.^;q[ND^JlI^(g.♦^0.^B.*^^  h^  *  *  ^^c  j^. 


ON   THEIR    MARRIAGE, 


ND  in  hand  a  c  1\\  ain  must  go 
Througli  the  shadow  and  the  glow, 
By  a  pathway  none  may  know. 


Pluck  the  roses  bv  the  way, 
Hoard  their  fragrance  wliile  ye  may ; 
t       Summer  will  not  alwa}  s  sta\ . 

Autumn  follows,  sure  and  fast, 
With  its  bitter  frost  and  blast, 
Spoiling  where  the  summer  passed. 


Winter,  too,  with  icy  feet, 

Cpmes  to  shroud  the  fair  and  sweet, 

In  his  snow-cold  winding-sheet. 


292 


^K.    AND    MRS.    O.    B.    R  >}=***  N. 

Walk  together  down  the  years, 
Sharing  all  your  hopes  and  fears, 
Joys  and  sorrows,  smiles  and  tears. 

Naught  can  break  the  links  that  bind 
Heart  to  heart  and  mind  to  mind 
In  the  duty  God  assigned. 

Toil  and  care  may  sear  and  blight ; 
Age  may  bleach  your  tresses  white  ; 
Love  will  keep  your  hearthstone  bright. 

Walk  together,  hand  in  hand ; 

There  are  lions  in  the  land. 

That  your  strength  can  scarce  withstand. 

Ye  will  meet  them,  day  and  night. 
In  the  darkness,  in  the  light  : 
Keep  your  weapons  always  bright. 

Love  that  lives  through  dearth  and  gloom, 
Giving  out  its  sweet  perfume 
By  the  deathbed,  at  the  tomb, 

Like  a  flower  by  wind  and  rain 
Broken,  scattered  on  the  pi  am. 
Dead,  will  never  live  again. 

Guard  your  treasure  b}'  the  way ; 
Name  it  in  the  pra}ers  ye  pray ; 
Nurse  it  b}'  the  words  ye  say. 
293 


MR.   AND   MRS.    O.   B.   R  >i^  *  *  ^  N. 

By  life's  losses  and  its  gain, 
By  its  pleasure  and  its  pain, 
Charm  the  charmer  to  remain. 

By  the  happiness  men  prize, 
By  remorse  that  never  dies, 
Guard  your  own  fair  paradise. 

Whatsoe'er  ye  lose  or  win, 
Let  no  serpent,  born  of  sin, 
Leave  a  trail  or  trace  therein. 

Let  no  harsh  or  hasty  word 

In  its  blooming  bowers  be  heard, 

To  frighten  thence  its  singing  bird. 

Let  no  summer  storm  arise 
In  the  brightness  of  its  skies 
To  dim  the  light  of  loving  eyes. 

Beech  Bank,  June  7,  1878. 


294 


'^-^ 


^4'    g) 


^De;i¥H  v0EvC0i£0NEn  vD .  vB, :  JiIeE/ 


ADDRESSED    TO    HIS    WIFE. 


^HE  light  has  flown  from  your  home  hearth- 
stone, 
Its  song  is  hushed  and  its   flowers   are 
dead ; 
And,  all  alone,  in  your  grief  and  moan, 
You  listen  in  vain  for  a  dear  one's  tread. 

His  place  is  there,  and  his  empty  chair, 
The  pictures  he  prized  and  the  books  he 
read. 
And    memory   brings    from    her    precious 
things 
The  tender  tones  of  the  words  he  said. 

But  his  face,  so  bright  with  love's  own  light, 
Comes  never  in  through  the  open  door, 
295 


COLONEL   D.    B.   MOE. 

And  your  sad  heart  pines,  as  the  day  dedines, 
For  the  loving  voice  you  may  hear  no  more. 

He  clasped  your  hand  in  a  fairy  land, 

All  rife  with  the  hopes  and  dreams  of  }outh, 

And  his  every  thought,  with  affection  fraught, 
Was  laid  on  the  altar  of  trust  and  truth. 

And  down  the  years,  with  their  smiles  and  tears, 
Through  all  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  life. 

Next  to  his  love  for  the  Lord  above. 

He  cherished  his  darling,  his  own  true  wife. 

Faithful  and  strong  to  redress  the  wrong 

That  threatened  the  home-land  loved  so  \v^ll, 

He  led  a  host,  not  counting  the  cost, 

Where  the  best  and  bravest  fought  and  fell. 

Day  after  da}-,  on  the  world's  highway, 
He  walked  in  the  light  of  a  noble  fame, 

And  time  will  write  on  his  tablets  bright 
The  glorious  deeds  that  crown  his  name. 

His  race  was  run  in  the  storm  and  sun  : 
His  soul  was  ripe  for  a  higher  life : 

To  die  was  gain,  and  his  heart's  last  pain 

Was  the  thought  of  leaving  his  child  and  wife. 

With  blessed  trust  in  the  Lord,  all  just, 

And  trui'  U)  ihr  j^ioinise  His  love  has  given, 
.       296 


COLONEL   D.    B.    MOE. 

He  left  the  earth,  with  its  dust  and  dearth, 
For  his  beautiful  home  prepared  in  heaven. 


His  work  begun  below  will  be  done 

Where  pain  and  sorrow  have  no  control ; 

And  his  love  so  pure  will  live  and  endure. 

And  grow  with  the  growth  of  his  deathless  soul. 

Beech  Bank,  June  7,  1878. 


297 


■^—^;-^^-^-^?'i 


^2^IiIEE.$<- 


HEY  say  we  should  not  tell  the  young 
That  life  is  full  of  sorrow ; 
That  if  the  sky  be  bright  to-day, 
r^      A  storm  will  come  to-morrow  ; 

That  Love's  delicious  morning  dream, 

And  Fancy's  fine  ideal, 

Are  mockeries  of  the  actual, 

The  hard,  unlovely  real. 

That  Disappointment  follows  fast 

The  footsteps  of  Ambition  ; 
That  Hope's  fair  promises  are  false, 

And  come  not  to  fruition  ; 
That  Fame  is  but  an  idle  breath, 

And  lofty  place  and  power 
Are  evanescent  as  the  bow 

That  spans  a  summer  shower. 
298 


LIFE. 

That  no  man  goes  the  way  he  would, 

Nor  wins  the  thing  he  wanted ; 
That  brightest  paths  are  set  with  thorns, 

And  fairest  threshhold  haunted  ; 
That  when  we  nearly  grasp  the  prize 

We  sought  with  long  endeavor, 
Some  seeming  trifle  bears  it  thence, 

Beyond  our  reach  forever. 

That  all  the  way  to  three-score-ten, 

From  life's  serene  beginning, 
Is  paved  by  every  human  soul 

With  failures,  faults  and  sinning ; 
That  all  we  get  to  have  and  hold. 

When  death  shall  loose  life's  fetter, 
Is  worthless,  save  our  trust  in  God 

For  something  surer,  better. 


Beech  Bank,  June,  1876. 


vsaj 


.Y, 


299 


tME  LJTTUE  mm'' 


^^JagEPp :  1^.  T. :  60^D0]VI.^> 


KILLED  IN  BATTLE,  AT  CAMP  ALLEGHENY,  DECEMBER  I3, 

1861. 


ROM   the  wall   of  a  stately  mansion,  a  fair 
young  face  looks  down, 
Dight  with  the  cap  of  a  soldier,  that  seemeth 

a  fitting  crown, 
.With  firm  resolve  on  his  beardless  lip,  and 
truthful  eyes  dark  brown. 

By  the  smouldering  fire  of  genius,  by  the 
manly  strength  and  grace. 

By  the  innate  truth  and  honor  portrayed  in 
his  b()}Hsh  face, 

You  know  that  his  blood   claims  kindred 
with  the  blood  of  a  noble  race ; 
300 


JOSEPH   R.   T.    GORDON. 

That   his   mind   and   heart    are    dowered   with   a  wealth 

beyond  fine  gold, 
That  came  from  the  souls  of  heroes,  warm,  generous,  tioie 

and  bold. 
Who  fought  for  the  right,  and  conquered,  in  the  shadow^' 

days  of  old. 


There  needeth  no  gift  prophetic,  no  wave  of  sorcer^^'s 

wand, 
To  show  that  his  future  pathway  will  be  upward,  onward, 

grand. 
To  the  loftiest  plane  of  manhood,  where  the  good  and 

true  may  stand. 

Would  you  know  whose  life-like  semblance  is  shrined  in 

that  golden  frame  ; 
On  his  country's  roll  of  honor  you  will  tind  inscribed  the 

name 
Of  a  noble  boy,  a  hero,  w^ho  died  for  his  countr3''s  fame ; 

Who  marched  to  the  field  of  battle  w^hen  the  sunshine  of 

life's  May 
Unclosed  the  hearts  of  the  roses  that  bloomed  along  his 

way, 
And  the  beautiful  hope  of  boyhood  dreamed  of  a  long, 

bright  day. 

To  his  soldier- father's  letter,  full  of  sore  regret  and  tears. 

Tender  words  of  admonition,  trembling  hopes  and  fears, 

Lest  his  course  should  mar  the  promise  of  fair  fruit  in 

future  years, 

301 


JOSEPH    R.   T.    GORDON. 

The  boy's  reply,  unfinished  when  the  fatal  fight  begun, 
Found  in  his  gory  garment,  when  the  field  was  lost  and 

won, 
Sealed  with  his  life,  was  worthy  of  the  noblest  Roman's 

son.* 

Thus   it   ran:     ''Remember,    father,    that   your   counsel 

sowed  the  seed. 
In  the  training  of  my  childhood,  that  has  ripened  to  this 

deed. 
In  defense  of  our  dear  Union,  in  its  time  of  utmost  need. 

You  taught  me  to  love  my  country  ;  trained  me  to  be  brave 

and  true. 
In  every  word  and  action  that  a  man  may  say  or  do. 
For  the  sake  of  human  freedom.     Father,  I  but  follow 

you." 

But,  alas !  for  the  brave  young  spirit,  for  its  hope  and 
high  emprise, 

For  the  hand  that  lost  its  cunning — the  light  of  the  dark- 
brown  eyes. 

And  the  promise  of  noble  manhood.  Alas,  for  the  sacri- 
fice ! 


'='  His  father  had  said  to  him  that  with  his  unformed  habits  of  life  and  thought,  he 
feared  he  had  just  about  thrown  himself  away;  but  hoped  that  he  might  be  mistaken, 
and  that  he  would  labor  to  convince  him  that  he  was.  To  this  letter  Joseph  wrote  a 
response,  which  came  home  in  his  bloody  coat  pocket  unfinished;  but  it  contained  this 
vindication  of  his  motives:  "You  seem  to  be  at  a  loss,  my  dear  father,  to  understand 
''  my  motive  for  volunteering ;  but,  I  think,  if  you  will  remember  the  lessons  which  for 
"years  you  have  endeavored  to  impress  upon  my  mind,  that  all  will  be  explained. 
"  When  you  have  endeavored  ever  since  1  was  old  enough  to  understand  you,  toin»truct 
"me— not  only  by  precept  but  by  example— that  I  was  to  prefer  freedom  to  every  thing 
"  el*e  in  this  world,  and  that  1  should  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  any  thing,  even  life  itself, 
"on  the  altar  of  my  country  when  required,  you  surely  should  not  be  surprised  that  1 
"should,  in  this  hour  of  extreme  peril  to  my  country, offer  her  my  feeble  aid." 

302 


JOSEPH   R.   T.    GORDON. 

He  stood  in  the  front  with  the  bravest,  in  the  battle's 

seething  hell, 
Unawed  by  the  cannon's  thunder  or  the  hail  of  shot  and 

shell, 
And  there  in  the  fiery  tempest,  the  fair  boy  fought  and 

fell! 


We  turn  from  the  life-like  picture,  with  a  sense  of  sorrow 

deep ; 
From  the  still  invisible  presence,  that  will  haunt  us  in  our 

sleep ; 
From  the  beardless  lip,  the  earnest  eyes,  we  turn  aw^ay  to 

weep ; 

To  weep  for  the  life-long  sorrow  of  his  father's  house  and 

heart ; 
For  the  love  that  lives  and  lingers  when  its  ties  are  rent 

apart ; 
For   the   wounded   soul   whose    sickness    is   beyond   the 

healer's  art ; 

To  weep  for  the  land  we  cherish,   so  sadly  and  sorely 

crost ; 
For  her  noble  sons  that  suflfered,  for  the  best,  the  bravest, 

lost 
Defending  her  holy  birthright,  in  the  war's  red  holocaust. 

Beech  Bank,  January,   1880. 


303 


4 

ranniiiiMS 


-  iiAAAiAiAAii 


^I  vC^N  •  Ne^^-CpeogE :  BaT :  ^iNe. 


:N  the  silence  of  the  midnight, 

Midst  the  voices  of  the  day, 
Visions  of  the  bright  and  lovely 

Ever  round  my  spirit  play  ; 
Breezes  from  the  vales  of  Eden 
Come  and  fan  me  with  their  wing, 
\^      Till  my  soul  is  full  of  music, 

And  I  can  not  choose  but  sing. 

When  a  sparkling  fount  is  brimming, 

Let  a  fairy  cloud  bestow 
But  another  drop  of  water. 

And  a  wa\('  will  overflow  ; 
When  a  thirsty  flower  has  taken 

All  the  dew  its  heart  can  bear, 
It  distributes  the  remainder 

To  the  sunbeam  and  the  air. 

304 


I   CAN   NOT   CHOOSE   BUT   SING. 

Well,  I  know  I  am  not  gifted 

With  the  fervor  and  the  fire 
To  enrapture  and  astonish 

Like  the  masters  of  the  lyre ; 
But  my  unpretending  music 

May  a  ray  of  comfort  bring 
To  a  heart  oppressed  with  sadness ; 

Then,  in  pity,  let  me  sing. 

Like  the  murmur  of  a  streamlet, 

Like  the  carol  of  a  bn-d. 
My  songs  may  be  too  humble 

To  be  heeded  when  they're  heard ; 
But  they  made  my  heart  forgetful 

Of  its  sorrow  and  its  pain. 
In  the  years  that  have  departed. 

And  were  therefore  not  in  vain. 


Oh,  I  can  not  say  I  never 

Sigh  to  gain  a  deathless  name  : 
There  is  something  most  bewitching 

In  the  laurel-wreath  of  fame ; 
But  I  know,  if  I  could  win  it, 

And  entwine  it  on  my  brow, 
That  I  should  not  be  as  happy 

Or  as  light  of  heart  as  now. 

For  it  is  so  bright  and  glowing 
That  it  dazzles  and  deceives, 

305  ^20 


I   CAN   NOT   CHOOSE   BUT  SING. 

Whilst  a  thousand  thorns  are  hidden 
By  the  sparkle  of  its  leaves. 

No,  I  can  not  hope  to  reach  it, 
With  my  faint  and  feeble  wing, 

But  my  soul  is  full  of  music, 
And  I  can  not  choose  but  sing. 


1849. 


300 


^TpE^]^EWg♦^6F^;5^D^Y. 


REAT  battle!    Times  Extra!''  the  newsboy 
cried  ; 
But  it  scarcely  rippled  the  living  tide 
That  ebbed  and  flowed  in  the  busy  street, 
With  its  throbbing  hearts  and  its  restless 

feet. 
Again  through  the  hum  of  the  city  thrilled  : 
"  Great  battle  !     Times  Extra!    Ten  thou- 
sand killed  I  " 
And  the  little  carrier  hurried  awa}^ 
With  the  sorrowful  news  of  that  winter  day. 


To  a  dreary  room  in  an  attic  high 
Trembled  the  words  of  that  small,  sharp 

cry  ; 
And  a  lonely  widow  bowed  down  her  head 
And   murmured,    '^  Willie,   my   Willie,    is 

dead! 

307 


THE   NEWS   OF   A   DAY. 

'*  Oh,  darling,  it  was  not  an  idle  dream 

That  led  me,  last  night,  to  that  dark,  deep  stream, 

Where  the  ground  was  wet  with  a  crimson  rain. 

And  strewn  all  over  with  ghastly  slain ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  for  the  night  was  wild. 

But  I  threaded  the  gloom  till  I  found  my  child. 

"The  cold  rain  fell  on  his  upturned  face, 

But  the  swift  destroyer  had  left  no  trace 

Of  the  sudden  blow  and  the  quick,  sharp  pain, 

But  a  little  wound  and  a  crimson  stain. 

I  knew  that  his  beautiful  life  was  gone. 

But  my  soul  stood  there,  as  the  night  wore  on. 

Till  they  tore  the  flag  from  his  clasping  hand, 

And  covered  him  up  with  the  blood-stained  sand. 

*'  Willie,  O  Willie  !  it  seems  but  a  day 
Since  thy  baby-head  on  my  bosom  lay  ; 
Since  I  heard  thee  pratding  soft  and  sweet, 
And  guided  the  steps  of  thy  tottering  feet. 
Thou  weit  the  fairest  and  last  of  three — 
But  the  Father  in  Heaven  has  taken  thee ; 
And  thy  boyish  face  lies  cold  and  white. 
By  the  deep,  dark  river  I  saw  last  night ; 
Where  they  tore  the  flag  from  thy  clasping  hand, 
And  covered  thee  up  with  the  blood-stained  sand." 


She  read  the  names  of  llic  missing  and  slain- 
But  one  she  read  over  ;i^ain  and  again ; 


THE  NEWS   OF   A  DAY. 

And  the  sad,  low  words  that  her  white  lips  said 
Were  :     "  Company  C,  Willie  Warren,  dead  !  " 
The  world  toiled  on  through  the  busy  street. 
With  its  aching  hearts  and  unresting  feet ; 
And  night  came  down  to  her  cold  hearthstone, 
But  she  still  read  on,  in  the  same  low  tone  ; 
And  still  the  words  that  her  white  lips  said 
Were,  *'  Company  C,  Willie  Warren,  dead !  " 

The  light  of  the  morning  chased  the  gloom 
From  the  emberless  hearth  of  that  attic  room  ; 
And  the  city's  pulses  throbbed  again — 
But  the  mother's  heart  had  forgotten  its  pain. 
She  had  gone  through  the  gates  to  the  better  land, 
With  that  terrible  list  in  her  pale,  cold  hand, 
With  her  white  lips  parted,  as  last  she  said : 
"  Company  C,  Willie  Warren,  dead  !  " 

Indianapolis,  1863. 


309 


^P;5RRIS'S-fJiIlRR0R^eK^lN5fEJIPER^NCE/ 


OD  speed  thy  mission,  pictured  scroll, 

Till  thou  hast  taught,  on  every  shore, 
And  graven  on  every  human  soul 

Thy  liigh  and  hoi}'  lore. 
Go  boldly  to  the  proudest  board, 
Where  the  red  wine  is  gayly  poured. 
And  midst  the  revel's  gorgeous  glare 
Whisper  to  each  young  heart,  beware ! 
Crime,  madness,  death  lies  hid  beneath 
The  jeweled  goblet's  sparkling  wreath. 

Go  tell  how  one,  a  noble  youth. 
With  radiant  brow  and  sunny  hair. 

Whose  heart  was  full  of  love  and  truth, 
And  brave  to  do  and  dare, 

Went  forth,  in  life's  sweet  morning  hours, 


310 


MIRROR   OF    INTEMPERANCE. 

Upon  a  path  of  fairy  flowers, 
Dreaming  a  thousand  glowing  dreams 
Of  Eden  lands  and  sparkhng  streams, 
And  all  things  beautiful  and  fair. 
That  Fancy  paints  in  earth  and  air, 
Till  his  poetic,  fiery  soul. 
Spurned  sober  reason's  calm  control. 


Tell  how  he  won  a  gentle  bride ^ 

To  grace  his  ancient  marble  hall ; 
Tell  of  his  station,  wealth  and  pride, 

And  then  portray  his  fall. 
And  first  he  quaffed  in  pleasure's  bowsers 
The  social  glass,  to  speed  the  hours  ; 
Till,  half  unwittingly  its  slave. 
He  tottered  to  a  drunkard's  grave. 

Go  show  the  felon's  drear\^  cell. 
Where  first  the  ruined  one  awoke 

To  memories  he  could  never  quell, 
Until  his  mad  heart  broke. 

Memories  of  home  and  happy  days, 

Of  childish  prattle,  childish  plays, 

And  his  voung  wife,  with  love-lit  brow. 

Home,  children,  wife — where  are  you  now ! 

He  shrieked,  and  wildly  cursed  his  fate — 

O  God,  his  home  was  desolate ! 

His  children  begged,  from  door  to  door. 
His  maniac  wife  was  barred  and  banned ; 
311 


MIRROR   OF   INTEMPERANCE. 

He  was  a  murderer — human  gore 

Reeked  on  his  red  right  hand. 
Then  foulest  fiends  of  darkness  came, 
Hissing  in  scorn  his  branded  name, 
And  telHng  over,  one  by  one, 
The  dire  misdeeds  his  hands  had  done, 

Till  madness  fired  the  throbbing  brain. 
One  blow,  one  struggle,  and  he  died — 
A  drunkard,  murderer,  suicide. 

Go  tell  of  hovels,  damp  and  old. 

Where  Heaven's  own  light  is  feebly  shed 
And  children,  shivering  with  the  cold, 

Cry  all  day  long  for  bread. 
Go  tell  of  woman's  sacred  trust, 
Unheeded,  trampled  in  the  dust ; 
Of  holy  love,  that  still  lives  on, 
When  joy  and  peace  and  hope  are  gone. 
And  like  the  ivy,  would  conceal 
The  wounds  it  has  no  power  to  heal. 

Go  tell  of  weary,  wasted  years, 

Of  blind  suspicion,  jealous  rage, 
Of  broken  vows,  repentant  tears, 

And  premature  old  age  ; 
Of  haggard  want  and  squandered  wealth, 
Of  trembling  limbs  and  ruined  health. 
Of  shattered  mind  and  blighted  name, 
Of  ragged  beggary  and  shame, 
And  whisper :     All  these  ills  are  thme, 
Foul  spirit,  soul -destroying  wine! 
312 


^J^]^EJI6R3E.3H^ 


T  has  walked  beside  me  long, 

With  its  white  lips  never  speaking ; 
When  it  came,  my  heart  was  strong — 
Now  its  chords  are  slowly  breaking. 
When  the  daylight  dawns  or  dies  ; 
When  the  stars  set,  when  they  rise ; 
Wheresoe'er  my  path  may  be, 
That  pale  phantom  walks  with  me — 
Pointing  backward  to  the  Past ; 
Pointing  with  unmoving  finger 
To  the  Past— 
The  irrevocable  Past. 

When  I  lock  and  bar  the  door 

Of  my  chamber,  high  and  lonely, 

Where  the  loved  ones  come  no  more, 
And  my  footsteps  echo  only  ; 

313 


REMORSE. 

Suddenly  a  darkness  falls 
On  the  floor  and  on  the  walls, 
And  it  stands  beside  my  chair, 
With  a  cold,  unearthly  stare. 
Pointing  to  the  buried  Past ; 
Pointing  with  its  bloodless  finger 
To  the  Past— 
The  irrevocable  Past. 


When  I  walk  the  city's  street. 

Where  the  tides  of  life  are  flowing, 
To  the  measured  fall  of  feet 
Ever  coming,  ever  going  ; 
There  between  me  and  the  light 
Walks  the  spectre,  cold  and  white, 
With  its  stony,  staring  eyes. 
Shutting  out  the  blessed  skies. 
Pointing  to  the  shadowy  Past ; 
Pointing  with  its  dim,  dead  finger, 
To  the  Past— 
The  irrevocable  Past. 

**  Hence  !  "  I  said,  **  and  come  no  more 
I  am  sorrow-sick  and  weary. 

My  heart  aches — aches  to  its  core  ; 
All  my  way  is  lone  and  dreary. 

Hence,  and  hide  thee  from  the  sun ! 

Sin  cjin  never  be  undone  ; 

Else  had  bitter  pain  and  woe 

Exorcised  thee  long  ago." 
3H 


REMORSE. 

Still  it  pointed  to  the  Past ; 

Pointed  from  the  living  Present 
To  the  Past— 
The  irrevocable  Past. 


1865. 


315 


^*^^3F-f]^E3JF.3l£<.* 


^Mrs. 


HEART,  as  noble  as  ever  beat 

In  a  woman's  bosom,  pure  and  sweet, 

Is  still  to-night. 
Lips,  ever  gentle  and  kind  and  true, 
Hands  ever  ready  to  giv^e  and  do, 

Are  cold  and  white. 

Feet  that  had  wandered  east  and  west. 
Weary  and  worn  with  a  fruitless  quest, 

Will  go  no  more. 
A  loving  mother,  a  helpful  wife, 
Faithful  and  true  to  the  end  of  life, 

Is  gone  before. 

I  loved  her  well,  in  her  life's  fair  May, 
When  sunshine  drifted  along  her  way, 

tAnd  hope  was  rife. 
P  I  loved  her  still,  in  the  darker  years 

1  That  broiinlit  disaster,  loss  and  tears 

r  To  hor  young  life. 

J.  J    Barrett.  ^j^ 


x\T   REST. 

With  patient  effort  and  will  resigned, 
She  took  up  the  burden  Heaven  assigned, 

And  ever  strove. 
Through  sheen  and  shadow,  blast  and  blight. 
To  make  the  home  and  hearthstone  bright 

With  tender  love. 

Where  some  have  faltered  and  failed,  she  stood 
Firm  in  the  strength  of  her  w^omanhood. 

With  noble  aim. 
Working  and  waiting  along  the  way. 
For  a  clearer  sky,  a  brighter  day, 

That  never  came. 

Whilst  others  went,  from  a  low^er  plane. 

To  the  tempting  heights  she  had  hoped  to  gain, 

'Neath  brighter  skies. 
She  kept  her  wav,  with  a  quiet  mien, 
Nor  sighed  for  the  state  that  might  have  been 

Her  w^ell-earned  prize. 

Modestly  shunning  the  public  gaze, 
Caring  but  little  for  idle  praise 

Or  idle  blame. 
She  won  the  fairest  and  best  renown. 
The  purest  jew^el  in  w^oman's  crow^n, 

A  spotless  name. 

Her  davs  are  told  and  her  work  is  done. 
In  the  winter's  storm,  the  summer's  sun  ; 
The  bourn  is  past. 
317 


AT   REST. 

And  of  all  the  days  of  life,  the  best 
Is  the  one  that  brings  us  endless  rest, 
The  very  last. 

Free  and  afar,  in  the  heavenly  lands, 

She  has  found  a  house,  not  made  with  hands, 

.  To  her  assigned  ; 
And  none  that  love  her  should  wish  her  back 
To  the  weary  waiting,  pain  and  wrack 
She  left  behind. 

Beech  Bank,  November,  1878. 


318 


-^)S 


^^^N'^Bde.*^- 


SUNG    ON   LAYING  THE   CORNER   STONE   OF  MASONIC   HALL, 

1848. 


Tune— 'Hail  to  the  Chief. 


]ONS  of  a  glorious  Order,  anointed 

To  cherish  for  ages  the  ark  of  the  Lord, 
Wearing  the  mvsticai  badges  appointed, 
Come  to  the  Temple  with  sweetest  accord. 

Come  lay  the  corner  stone, 

Asking  the  Lord  to  own 
Labors  that  tend  to  his  glory  and  praise ; 

Long  may  the  mercy  seat, 

Where  angel-pinions  meet. 
Rest  in  the  beautiful  temple  ye  raise. 

Brothers  united,  to  you  it  is  given 

To   Hghten    the   woes   of   a   sin-blighted 
world  : 
Far  o'er  the  earth,   on    the    free   winds  of 
Heaven, 
Now  let  your  banner  of  love  be  unfurled. 
319 


AN   ODE. 

Write  there  the  blessed  three — 

Faith,  Hope  and  Charity, 
Names  that  shall  live  through  the  cycle  of  time ; 

Write  them  on  ever}'  heart. 

Make  them  your  guide  and  chart 
Over  hfe's  sea  to  the  haven  sublime. 

Go  forth  befriending  the  way-wear}^  stranger, 

Brightening  the  pathway  that  sorrow  hath  crossed. 
Strengthening  the  weak,  in  the  dark  hour  of  danger, 
Clothing  the  naked  and  seeking  the  lost, 
Opening  the  prison  door. 
Feeding  the  starving  poor. 
Chiding  the  evil,  approving  the  just, 
Drying  the  widow's  tears. 
Soothing  the  orphan's  fears — 
Great  is  your  mission,  in  "  God  is  your  trust." 

Go,  in  the  spirit  of  Him  who  was  holy, 

Gladden  the  wastes  and  the  by-ways  of  earth. 
Visit  the  homes  of  the  wretched  and  lowly, 
Bringing  relief  to  the  desolate  hearth. 

Bind  up  the  broken  heart, 

Joy  to  the  sad  impart. 
Stay  the  oppressor  and  strengthen  the  just ; 

Freely  do  you  receive, 

Freely  to  others  give, 
Great  is  your  mission,  in  **  God  is  j'^our  trust." 

Go  forth  with  ardor  and  liope  uiuliininished, 
Ever  be  zealous,  and  faitliful,  and  true; 
320 


AN   ODE. 

Still,  till  the  labor  appointed  is  linished, 

Do  with  your  might  what  your  hands  tind  to  do. 

Narrow  the  way  and  strait, 

Is  Heaven's  guarded  gate, 
Leading  the  soul  to  the  regions  of  love. 

There  with  the  spotless  throng, 

Swelling  the  triumph  song, 
May  you  be  found  in  the  Grand  Lodge  above. 


321 


<5-21 


(©_ 


4 


^^vCpRISTJi;^3'-^T8B(Y. 


HE  nightly  shadows,  dark  and  cold, 
Fell  round  a  hovel  low  and  old ; 
The  wind  came  through  the  broken  door 
And  scattered  snowflakes  on  the  floor. 
And  whispered  in  an  elfin  tone, 
From  shattered  thatch  to  cold  hearthstone, 
Whereon  a  woman  sat  and  prest, 
A  hungry  baby  to  her  breast, 
And  drew  the  rags,  in  closer  fold, 
Around  a  little  five-year-old 
That  crouched  and  shivered  at  her  feet. 
**  Mamma,"  he  lisped,  in  accents  sweet, 
As  lip,  and  cheek,  and  eye  grew  bright : 
*' Will  Trismas  tum  to-morrow  night?'* 


♦♦Yes,  Benny,  dear,"  the  mother  sighed, 
And  turned  her  pallid  face  aside, 
322 


A   CHRISTMAS    STORY. 

As  if  she  strove  lo  hide  the  tears 

That  came  with  thoughts  of  brighter  years. 

''Mamma,  1  wist,''  said  Httle  Ben, 

"  'At  we  tould  go  to  seep  till  den ; 

We'd  find  a  'ittle  jag  of  wood 

To  make  a  fire,  and  somesing  dood 

To  eat  for  break' ast,  dest  because 

I  writed  to  Old  Santa  Cans 

A  letter,  dest  my  very  best. 

And  hided  it  in  Robin's  nest, 

Away  up  in  the  cedar  tree, 

Where  'ittle  birdies  used  to  be." 

The  mother,  as  her  eyes  grew  dim. 

Asked  :     "  What,  dear,  did  you  wTite  to  him?' 

"  I  writed  :     '  Santa  :     Papa's  dead. 

I's  hungry  ;  pease  to  bring  some  bread. 

And  dest  a  'ittle  wood  and  tea 

For  mamma,  and  some  boots  for  me  ; 

My  feet  is  freezing  told,'  and  den 

I  writed  :     "  I  is  'ittle  Ben.'  " 


As  dawned  the  light  of  Christmas  day, 
O'er  mount  and  moorland,  cold  and  gray. 
O'er  frozen  stream  and  leafless  wold. 
O'er  stately  hall  and  hovel  old, 
A  little  tawny,  frowsy  head 
Was  lifted  from  a  tattered  bed, 
And  two  large,  shining,  childish  eyes, 
Brim  full  of  wonder  and  surprise, 
323 


A  CHRISTMAS   STORY. 

Beheld  a  hearthstone  warm  and  bright. 
Where  frost  was  woven  yesternight, 
And  saw  a  Httle  table  spread 
With  golden  butter,  snowy  bread 
And  ruddy  apples.     Could  it  be? 
Yes,  there  was  mamma  making  tea ! 
It  was  no  dream,  and  such  a  shout 
Of  boyish  joy  and  glee  rang  out, 
As  startled  with  its  merry  din 
The  little  snow-birds  peeping  in, 
Or  gayly  hopping  here  and  there, 
As  if  they  waited  for  a  share 
Of  that  delicious  Christmas  fare. 


Then  Benny,  kneeling  by  his  bed. 
Folded  his  little  hands  and  said 
His  morning  prayer:     "Amen" — a  pause, 
"And  pease,  dood  Lord,  bless  Santa  Caus." 


Soon  Benny  spied  a  basket  hid 
Behind  the  door ;  he  raised  the  lid 
And  found  a  woman's  dress  and  shawl, 
Warm  woolen  hood,  and — last  of  all — 
O  joy  I  a  boy\s  full  suit  of  clothes, 
Nice  mittens,  bran  new  boots  and  hose, 
And,  on  the  collar  of  the  coat 
Was  pinned  the  letter  Benn}-  wrote ; 
But  where  that  little  waif  had  blown, 
Or  who  replied,  was  never  known. 

324 


A  CHRISTMAS    STORY. 

Perhaps  some  tender  heart  and  hand 
Had  picked  it  up  in  Fairyland. 


How  Benny  looked  when  he  was  drest 
In  boots  and  breeches,  coat  and  vest, 
And  how  he  stirred  the  crackling  fire, 
To  see  the  ruddy  flames  leap  higher, 
And  how  the  baby  crowed  and  cooed, 
As  if  it  fully  understood. 
While  mamma  put  the  things  away, 
And  softly  sung  a  Christmas  lay, 
Is  more  than  I  have  words  to  say. 

Beech  Bank,  December,  1879. 


325 


^HliIK  v^JMD :  JPPE  :KlN6v0KvP^NDEMGNIUJiI. 


i- ."'. 


BOON,  O  King,"  cried  a  fiend  one  day, 
"  To  make  God's  creatures  forget  to  pray ; 
1^  Something  to  blast  and  blacken  the  scope 
^7€)That  lies  toward  Heaven   through    Faith 

and  Hope ; 
Something  to  madden  the  heart  and  the 

brain, 
With  the  fever,  the  fire  of  infernal  pain. 
Till  men,  bowed  down  to  thy  and  scepter 

and  rod, 
Forswear  the  allegiance  they  owe  to  God." 


**Ho,  caitift'I    I  thank  thee,"  the  king  made 

reply, 
"And   henceforward   hold  thee  my  loyal 

ally. 
A  thought  so  -i-:niiir,  a  scheme  so  malign, 
Is  worthily  born  in  this  kingdom  of  mine. 
326 


ULIK  AND  THE  KING  OF  PANDEMONIUM. 

"  Go  down  to  the  lake  in  the  valley  of  Zell — 

Its  waves  are  the  brightest,  the  hottest  in  hell — 

And  fill  thee  a  measure,  to  suit  thy  desires, 

Of  the  wrath  that  flows  up  from  unquenchable  fires ; 

And  hie  thee  away  to  the  earth  with  swift  feet — 

I  know,  O  good  Ulik,  the  task  will  be  sweet. 

My  seal  for  the  nonce,  but  remember  to  sow 

The  poison  broadcast  wheresoever  you  go. 

'Tis  subtle,  insidious,  and  strong  to  diffuse 

Its  bane  through  the  earth  and  the  air,  till  the  dews 

Shall  drink  it  at  midnight,  and  give  it  at  morn 

To  the  veins  of  the  vine,  to  the  heart  of  the  corn ; 

Till  men  from  the  w^ealth  of  their  harvests  distil 

A  liquid  to  torture,  to  madden,  to  kill. 

"  Ha,  ha  !     How  the  fire-flood  will  burn  in  each  vein  ; 

Will  dw^arf  the  strong  muscles  and  shrivel  the  brain ; 

Will  rend  the  fond  tendrils  of  kindred  apart, 

And  dr^'  up  the  fountain  of  love  in  the  heart : 

Will  sear  the  quick  senses  and  deaden  the  soul, 

Till  reason  grows  dizzy  and  loses  control. 

Till  appetite  reigns  over  honor  and  pride. 

And  conscience — God's  monitor — ceases  to  chide. 

*'  Ha,  ha  !     How  the  strong  man  shall  shiver  and  shake, 
And  see  frightful  visions  asleep  and  awake. 
Pale  phantoms  shall  mock  him  with  gibber  and  grin, 
And  follows  his  footsteps  without  and  within ; 
Shall  mock  him  with  laughter  and  horrible  ire, 
Till  his  brain  is  distraught  and  his  nerves  are  on  fire. 

327 


ULIK  AND  THE  KING  OF  PANDEMONIUM. 

"Forms  hideous  and  ghastly,  of  gobHn  and  ghoul, 
Shall  clutch  him  with  fingers  misshapen  and  foul. 
Strange  adders,  barbed  serpents  and  loathsomest  things 
Crawl  round  him  at  night  in  their  slime-reeking  rings ; 
Crawl  over  his  bed,  coil  his  pillows  about. 
Till,  closing  his  eyes,  he  would  fain  shut  them  out. 
Then,  shuddering  down  in  the  darkness,  he  sees. 
In  the  depths  of  his  soul,  things  viler  than  these. 

*'  So  the  fire-plague  will  bum  for  a  few  brief  years, 
And  leaving  a  pathway  of  ashes  and  tears. 
The  soul  of  the  drunkard,  through  anguish  and  strife, 
Shall  go  to  its  God  from  the  cesspools  of  life." 

TWO   THOUSAND    YEARS   AFTER. 

"All  hail  to  the  king !     Let  the  fiends  rejoice 
In  the  heart  of  hell."     It  was  Ulik's  voice. 
**  I  have  sown  the  seed  from  the  East  to  the  West, 
^Wheresoever  a  human  foot  hath  prest ; 
In  the  Northland's  frosts,  in  the  Southland's  heats, 
Wherever  a  pulse  of  the  old  earth  beats ; 
In  the  yellow  corn,  in  the  purple  vine, 
I  have  sown  the  seed — be  the  glory  thine ! 
Already  it  bears  in  each  land  and  cHme, 
A  plentiful  harvest  of  sin  and  crime — 
A  harvest  of  pestilence,  blight  and  bale, 
Of  violence,  bloodshed,  weeping  and  wail, 
Of  desolate  homes  and  perverted  lives. 
Of  famishing  children  and  murdered  wives, 

328 


ULIK  AND  THE  KING  OF  PANDEMONIUM. 

Of  blighted  affection  and  ruined  hope, 

Of  dungeons  and  death  by  the  gallows  rope. 

O,  the  seed  is  sown,  and  the  charm  works  well — 

Ha,  ha !  let  the  devils  rejoice  in  hell." 

Canton,  Mo.,  May,  1866. 


329 


^^  vF;5RME^'S  :P]^0TE3¥. 


AX,  tax  !  assessment  and  tax  ! 

We  can  not  get  on  with  these  burdensome 
J  packs, 

Fettered  by  law  to  our  brains  and  our  backs, 
In  these  hard  times. 

We  toil   every  hour  of  the   da}'   with   our 

might ; 
Think,   worry,   contrive  and  conjecture  all 

night, 
But  find  no  relief  on  the  left  or  the  right, 
In  these  hard  times. 


While  the  tax,  like  an  ogre  colossal  in  size, 
With  a  myriad  of  hands  and  a  myriad  of 

eyes, 
Consumes  us,  regardless  who  lives  or  who 
dies, 

In  these  hard  limes. 
330 


A   FARMER'S    PROTEST. 

If  dollars  or  ducats  bloomed  out  on  the  trees — 
If  greenbacks  came  down  on  the  wing  of  the  breeze, 
We  could  pay  this  enormous  assessment  with  ease, 
In  these  hard  times. 


If  gold-dust  were  sown  in  the  soil  and  the  sands. 
We  would  willingly  shoulder  our  picks  and  our  pans. 
And  dig  the  amount  with  our  horny,  brown  hands, 
In  these  hard  times. 

But  if  we  could  find  sale  for  our  horses  and  cows. 
Our  hay  rakes  and  harrows,  carts,  wagons  and  plows, 
The  corn  in  our  crib,  and  the  hay  in  our  mow^s. 
In  these  hard  times. 

When  we  came  to  pay  over  the  price  of  them  all. 
The  sum  w^ould  be  found  so  exceedingly  small 
That  the  cormorant  tax  would  still  hold  us  in  thrall. 
In  these  hard  times. 

Should  we  sell  the  last  bed,  the  last  table  and  chair. 
Pot,  platter  and  pan,  with  the  clothes  that  we  wear. 
And  adopt  the  costume  of  the  primitive  pair. 
In  these  hard  times  ; 

Even  then,  this  unsatisfied,  pitiless  tax. 
Like  Shylock,  would  point  us  to  figures  and  facts, 
And  claim  every  ounce  of  the  pound  it  exacts. 
In  these  hard  times. 
331 


A  FARMER'S   PROTEST. 

Alas,  for  thee,  beautiful  land  of  the  West ! 
That  Heaven,  like  a  bride,  for  her  bridal  has  drest ; 
And,  alas,  for  thy  people  so  severely  opprest! 
In  these  hard  times. 


The  poor  man  is  taxed  for  the  roof  on  his  shed. 
For  the  pig  in  his  sty,  for  the  sheet  on  his  bed. 
While  his  famishing  children  are  crying  for  bread. 
In  these  hard  times. 

The  widow  that  toils  in  the  heat  and  the  cold, 
Must  pay,  on  her  pitiful  chattels  enrolled, 
As  much  as  the  chattels  would  bring,  duly  sold. 
In  these  hard  times. 

And  even  the  rich  man  has  cause  to  complain 
Of  the  measures  that  bring  this  exorbitant  drain 
On  the  wealth  he  has  toiled  half  a  life  to  obtain. 
In  these  hard  times  ; 

It  were  better  to  live  on  some  isle  in  the  sea. 
With  the  friendly  Malay  or  the  gentle  Feejee, 
Where  the  fruits  of  the  earth  and  the  waters  are  free, 
In  these  hard  times. 

Or  to  wander  away  with  a  Bedouin  band, 
O'er  desolate  plains  of  Saharian  sand, 
Than  to  grapple  with  tax  in  this  beautiful  hmd, 
In  these  hard  times. 

Beech  Bank,  Junk.  1877.  -^^2 


^^J!Iy^Picm]^e.$=«- 


RESOLVED  to  have  my  picture- 
Dressed  myself  with  dainty  care, 

Tried  to  smooth  away  my  wrinkles, 
Tried  to  curl  my  scanty  hair ; 

Donned  a  costly  velvet  jacket, 
Prankt  my  head  with  cluny  lace. 

Tried  to  call  up  all  the  sunshine 
Of  my  nature  to  my  face. 


As  I  did  not  wish  m}^  picture 

Like  a  milkmaid,  nor  a  queen, 
Too  simple  nor  too  dignified, 

But  something  iust  between, 
I  assumed  an  easy  posture, 

And  a  cool,  nonchalant  air, 
And  assumed  to  look  unconscious, 

Or  as  though  I  did  not  care. 

333 


MY   PICTURE. 

Then  I  whispered,  "  Bread  and  butter," 

Just  to  get  m}-  lips  in  shape. 
But  the  muscles  would  keep  moving, 

And  I  felt  the  light  escape  ; 
For  the  artist  re-ai  ranged  me. 

Spied,  and  changed  my  pose  at  will. 
Pushed  my  shoulders  back  and  forward, 

Clamped  my  head  to  keep  it  still. 

But  a  shock  of  electricity 

Through  every  fiber  run. 
And  my  heart  w^as  wildly  throbbing 

Ere  the  picture  was  begun. 
But  I  held  my  breath  and  squinted. 

Until  everything  was  blue — 
I  was  sitting  for  my  picture  then. 

And  that  is  all  I  knew. 

You  may  guess,  from  such  beginning. 

That  the  grand  result  would  be 
A  shadow,  unlike  any  one. 

And  least  of  all  like  me. 
There  is  not  a  line  of  beauty, 

Not  a  touch  of  tender  grace, 
Not  a  vestige  of  expression 

In  this  heavy,  stolid  face. 

The  eyebrows  have  no  character, 
The  mouth  is  large  and  weak, 

A  certain  over-quantity 

Mars  under-jaw  and  cheek  ; 
334 


MY  PICTURE. 

The  eyes  are  small  and  watery, 
With  neither  shade  nor  shine, 

And  the  nose,  I  think,  if  possible, 
Is  uglier  than  mine. 

Dresden,  Saxony,   February,  1872. 


335 


m  <>  <^.  M  ^  m  K, 

-•^^^0:<S>  <S>  <3>  <$>  <3>  0  <3>  <o>  <3>'^^.^^ 


i  V  V  O  V  ^^  K^ 


/-^ 


.fe^' 


^^JlI;^RCJI.:^ 


ROM  the  meadow,  glebe  and  wold, 
A^Fettered  stream  and  pulseless  mold, 
|H  Take  th}'  fingers,  icy  cold, 
March. 
Cruel  tyrant,'  fierce  and  bold, 
March. 


r  • 


We  are  tired  of  wind  and  rain, 
With  their  pitiful  refrain, 
Oly.fy         Wailing  over  hill  and  plain, 

March. 
To  the  frozen  Arctic  main, 

March. 


We  are  tired  of  frost  and  snow, 
Driving,  drifting  to  and  fro — 


MARCH. 

Gloom  above  and  gloom  below, 

March. 
Fold  thy  tattered  robes  and  go, 

March. 


Tired  of  yellow  fog  and  haze, 
Starless  nights  and  sunless  da3'S, 
Dripping  eaves  and  miry  ways, 

March. 
Thou  hast  naught  to  love  or  praise, 

March. 


Take  thy  banners  from  the  skies, 

Let  us  see  the  old  sun  rise, 

Let  us  know  when  daylight  dies, 

March, 
With  thy  dreary  sobs  and  sighs, 

March. 


Earth  awaits  a  sunny  queen, 
From  the  South,  in  robes  of  green. 
Thou  art  standing  just  between, 

March, 
With  thy  winds  so  cutting  keen, 

March. 


Frozen  fallow  field,  and  how 
Hidden  germ  and  leafless  bough 

337  ^-22 


MARCH. 

Long  for  thy  departure  now, 

March, 
With  thy  snow-wreaths  round  thy  brow, 

March. 


No  soft  South  wind  wandering  free. 
No  sweet  song,  of  bird  or  bee, 
No  fair  blossom  greeteth  thee, 

March. 
Thou  art  feared  on  land  and  sea, 

March. 

Human  eye  can  never  trace 
Aught  of  beauty  or  of  grace 
In  th}'  haggard  form  and  face, 

March. 
Most  unkind  of  all  thy  race, 

March. 


Elm-Croft,  March,  1869. 


"•^^yUjC"^^ 


33S 


•^TpE^P^g^FOi^; 


OR, 


AI^XENBERG    ANO    I^EOKA. 


'c->iii\w4inihw/iii5^  ^^'^^  ^^^  pastor — learned,  gifted,  good  ; 
.  .at-AJas'         Meek   as   the   humblest   member   of  his 

flock  •, 
A   tower   of  strength  that  firmly,  grandly 
stood 
On  Christ,  the  Eternal  Rock. 


He  held  the  feeble  hand,  the  failing  heart : 
Cared  for  the  stranger,  fed  and  clothed 
the  poor, 
yi^-y  And,  by  his  generous  sympathy,  shared  part 

Of  all  the  ills  they  bore. 


No  earthly  honors,  neither  wealth  nor  fame, 
He  sought  to  win,  but  rather  turned  aside, 
As  counting  all  unworthy,  save  the  name 
Of  Jesus  crucified. 

339 


THE   PASTOR. 

One  day,  conversing  with  his  gentle  wife 

Of  his  untiring  labor,  ardent  zeal, 
The  perfect  abnegation  of  his  life 
For  God  and  human  weal. 


She  answered  :     *'  Yes,  for  many  happy  years, 

This  faith  and  hope  in  God  have  w^alked  with  him  ;" 
And  then  she  paused,  the  while,  with  tender  tears, 
Her  earnest  eyes  grew  dim. 

*'And  yet,"  she  added,  "once  he  led  the  van 

Of  those  who  spread  the  fallacy  abroad, 
That  all  things  great  are  possible  to  man, 
Without  the  help  of  God. 

"This  infidelity,  inbred  in  youth, 

Grew^  with  his  early  manhood,  fierce  and  strong; 
But  I  will  tell  you  how  he  found  the  truth — 
The  story  is  not  long. 


//, 


**  He  was  of  ancient  lineage,  proud  and  high, 

'  Bom  in  the  purple"  as  the  poet  saith  ; 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  wealth  and  luxury 
That  knew  no  need  of  faith. 

**  Yet  he  was  generous,  gentle,  brave  and  kind, 
Helpmg,  as  he  believed,  with  might  and  main, 

340 


THE  PASTOR. 

To  lift  the  least  and  lowest  of  mankind, 
To  some  broad,  lofty  plane. 

*'  His  thoughts  soared  up,  like  eagles,  to  the  sun ; 
Weighed  tawny  Stardust  on  the  mountain  cones. 
And  followed  wayward  comets  as  they  nm 
Their  course  through  golden  zones. 

*'  He  read  the  writing  that  the  hand  of  God 

Traced  on  the  firm  foundations  of  the  earth, 
Ere  bud  or  blossom  prankt  the  new-made  sod, 
Or  lowest  life  had  birth. 

*'  He  sought  the  subtle  love  of  nature's  law^s 

To  guage  her  forces,  find  her  hidden  springs, 
Trace  her  results  back  to  their  primal  cause. 
And  know  her  secret  things. 

"And  not  contented  with  the  knowledge  won 
By  patient  seeking  in  earth's  secret  nooks, 
Through  hieroglyphics  ages  rolling  on 
Left  in  unwritten  books, 

*'  His  reason  sat  in  judgment,  and  arraigned 

To  its  tribunal  the  eternal  plan 
That  wisdom's  self  conceived  and  love  ordamed 
To  ransom  ruined  man. 

*' Gifted  with  wondrous  eloquence  of  speech, 
Learned  in  philosophy  of  seer  and  sage, 
341 


THE   PASTOR. 

His  glowing  argument  had  range  and  reach 
That  few  could  rightly  gauge. 

"And  when  we  met,  one  golden  afternoon — 
Met  on  a  cliff,  where  I  had  dared  to  climb 
To  hear  some  sea  waves  chant,  in  Elfin  tune, 
Some  grand  old  Gothic  rhyme. 

"  He  said,  '  Behold,  O  friend,  this  scene  is  fair ; 

That  low,  green  hill,  half  veiled  in  purple  mist, 
Whereon  the  maples  and  the  sumachs  wear 
Scarlet  and  amethyst ; 

*'  'Yon  reach  of  meadow  lands,  fair  glebe  and  glade. 

Dotted  with  snowy  lambs  and  spotted  kine ; 
That  old  brown  homestead  nestling  in  the  shade 
Of  tree  and  climbing  vine  ; 

** '  That  distant  coast  that  seems  to  meet  the  sky 

Among  the  golden  mountains  of  the  West ; 
Yon  long  sea-reach,  where  wan  waves  sob  and  sigh. 
Because  they  find  no  rest ; 

**  'And  nearer,  see  that  lichen-bannered  ledge, 

At  whose  brown  feet  a  sparkling  streamlet  nms, 
Kissing  the  lilies,  peepmg  through  the  sedge. 
Like  crowds  of  cloistered  nuns. 

342 


THE  PASTOR. 

''  *Ah,  friend,  this  worid  of  ours  is  good  and  fair 

In  its  appointments,  and  their  temperate  use ; 
That  there  is  pain  and  sorrow,  want  and  care, 
Proves  onl}'  its  abuse. 

*' '  That  some  men  are  uncultured,  mean  and  base  ; 

That  some  are  sordid,  seltish  and  unkind ; 
That  some  are  fell  destroyers  of  their  race. 
Proves  only  they  are  blind. 

IV. 

"  '  We  come  into  the  world  unstained  and  pure 
As  those  fair  blossoms  by  the  brooklet  sown, 
With  gifts  that  should  a  higher  life  insure 
Than  man  has  ever  known. 

** '  But  when  the  mind  begins  to  comprehend 

The  scope  and  purpose  of  its  powers  astute, 
They  curb  its  aspirations,  lest  they  tend 
To  crave  forbidden  fruit. 

**  'They  will  not  let  us  climb  to  loft}'  heights. 

Those  wise  and  reverend  teachers  of  our  youth ; 
They  close  the  door  and  quench  the  kindhng  light, 
Lest  we  should  see  the  truth. 

** '  They  lead  us  where  they  say,  our  feet  should  tread  ; 

They  teach  us  what  to  think,  what  to  believe ; 
Warn  us  of  thousands  lost  who  were  misled 
By  false  lights  that  deceiv'e. 
343 


THE   PASTOR. 

**  *  They  tell  us,  •"'  Thus  and  thus  saith  God  ;"  and  so, 
The  fountain  head  of  knowledge  closed  and  sealed, 
We  may  not  question  more  nor  seek  to  know 
What  He  hath  not  revealed. 

*'  *They  bind  our  winged  thoughts  with  fetters  wrought 

By  Superstition,  in  his  monkish  cell, 
And  fill  our  minds  with  dreams,  by  priestcraft  taught 
Since  fabled  Adam  fell ; 

*^ '  Load  us  with  old  opinions,  stale  conceits, 

And  fables,  grown  realities  by  use ; 
Dogmas  and  forms  that  age  to  age  repeats, 
As  mysteries  abstruse. 

** '  They  teach  us  that  the  Uncreated  One, 
With  whom  is  no  beginning  and  no  end ; 
Around  whose  throne  eternal  circles  run. 
Myriads  of  worlds  extend, 

"  *  Was  incarnated,  of  a  woman  bom, 

To  make  atonement  for  the  guilt  of  man, 
Who  had  repaid  His  love  with  slight  and  scorn, 
Since  human  life  began.' 


*'  The  waves  went  chanting  low  along  the  beach ; 

The  scented  south  wind  flitted  idly  by, 
And  I  sat  listening  to  his  affluent  speech, 
That  waited  no  reply. 

344 


THE   PASTOR. 

*'  But  when,  in  mocking  words,  he  dared  to  speak 

Of  Him  who  is  of  my  souFs  life  a  part, 
I  felt  the  hot  blood  ebbing  from  my  cheek 
To  my  indignant  heart. 

*' '  Friend,  have  you  well  considered  this?'  I  said  ; 
*  Though  words   are   sometimes   little   more   than 
sound, 
We  should  be  wary  how  we  idly  tread 
On  consecrated  ground. 

***That  Christ,  our  Lord,  was  pure  and  good  and 
wise 
Above  all  other  men,  none  will  deny. 
This  being  granted,  how  could  He  devise 
And  propagate  a  lie? 

*' '  If  He  were  not,  in  essence,  God  and  man. 
Not  what  His  lips  declared  Himself  to  be. 
Tell  me,  O  sage,  O  sophist,  if  you  can. 

Whence  ?     Wherefore  ?     What  was  He  ? 

*'  *  Determine  what  He  was  by  what  He  did  ; 

Let  all  His  words  and  works  bear  witness  :  wrest 
Proof  from  His  foes,  that  nothing  may  be  hid 
From  truth's  severest  test. 

*'  'And  if  the  tree  He  planted  bear  or  bore 

Poisonous  blossoms  and  unwholesome  fruit, 
Fair  on  the  surface,  rotten  at  the  core, 
Dig  up  the  baneful  root. 
345 


THE   PASTOR. 

*'  *  If  the  unfailing  fountain  He  unsealed, 

Like  the  Dead  Sea,  is  bitter  to  the  taste ; 
If  men,  by  therein  bathing,  are  not  healed ; 
If  barren  wild  and  waste 


''  'Are  not  refreshed  and  gladdened  by  its  flow ; 

If  in  the  desert  sands  and  solitude 
It  make  not  fruitful  trees  to  bloom  and  grow, 
Then  is  the  source  not  good. 

** '  Demons  and  devils,  by  His  presence  awed, 

Trembled  and  hastened  to  obey  His  will, 
Nature  beheld  her  Maker  and  her  God, 
And  winds  and  waves  were  still. 

**  *  Go,  follow  him  to  Bethany  a-near, 

Where  Martha  met  Him  by  the  way,  and  cried 
In  bitter  anguish,  *'  Lord,  hadst  thou  been  here, 
My  brother  had  not  died  !"  . 

**  *  Go  with  Him  to  the  sepulchre  wherein 

Four  days  and  nights  His  friend  beloved  had  slept, 
And  see  humanity,  unstamed  by  sin, 
Sorrowing  when  Jesus  wept. 

"  *  But  when,  at  His  command,  a  tremor  ran 

Through  deatii's  cold  heart,  and  that  insensate  clod 
Arose,  came  forth  a  living,  breathing  man ; 
Behold  the  Omnific  God  ! ' 
346 


THE   PASTOR. 


V/. 


*'  He  seemed  to  ponder,  but  he  answered  not, 

Or  only  murmured  in  an  undertone, 
As  if  unwittingly  he  had  forgot 
He  was  not  quite  alone. 

*' '  Happy,  thrice  happy,  but  whose  hearts  receive 

This  simple  faith  in  Him  whom  men  reviled 
And  crucified.     Would  I,  too,  could  believe. 
Even  as  a  little  child.' 

"And  gazing  earnestly  toward  the  sky. 

As  he  were  questioning  the  realms  of  space, 
He  sighed  :     'A  taint  of  infidelity 
Is  in  my  blood  and  race.' 

*'And  then  he  turned  and  said,  as  if  ashamed 

Of  having  shown  such  weakness  :     '  Nay,  in  sooth 
I  may  be  wrong,  but  have  sincerely  aimed 
To  find  and  know  the  truth.' 

*'  He  was  above  my  little  sphere  so  far. 

That,  looking  up  to  him,  my  eyes  grew  dim  ; 
I  was  a  wayside  blossom,  he  a  star ; 
And  yet  I  pitied  him. 

**  I  pitied  him,  that  seeing,  he  was  blind, 
That,  being  free,  was  bound  with  many  a  thrall ; 

I  347 


THE   PASTOR. 

That,  having  gracious  gifts  of  heart  and  mind, 
Yet  lacked  the  best  of  all. 

VII. 

**  I  read  his  printed  words,  and,  in  despite 

Of  my  conviction  that  they  would  ensnare, 
My  thoughts,  like  moths,  went  hovermg  round  the 
light- 
So  dangerous,  yet  so  fair. 

"With  glowing  hues,  his  wonder-working  pen 
Painted  bright  pictures  of  the  fair  and  good ; 
The  while  he  set  before  his  fellow  men 
A  feast  of  poisonous  food. 

**  I  said  :     *  I  will  avoid  him  and  forget 

These  subtle  arguments  that  give  me  pain ;' 
But  whensoe'er  b}'  choice  or  chance  we  met, 
I  listened  rapt  again. 

"Till,  shall  I  own  it?     Was  it  overbold? 
No  matter  now — the  memory  is  sweet ; 
My  heart  poured  out  its  treasures,  all  untold, 
Unasked,  at  this  man's  feet. 

**  I  knew  our  paths,  that  lay  so  far  apart, 

Could  lu  \  1 1  meet  on  earth,  and  yet  it  seemed 
That  we  should  be  united,  heart  to  heart, 
Somewhere — and  so  I  dreamed. 

34^ 


THE   PASTOR. 

*'And,  in  my  dream  strange  aspirations  came, 
Not  for  applause  of  men  nor  golden  gain — 
A  nobler  purpose  and  a  loftier  aim 
Inspired  my  teeming  brain. 

"  My  thoughts  took  higher  range  and  larger  scope 

I  saw  a  work  for  heart,  mind,  soul  and  pen, 
And  life  grew  brighter  with  the  blessed  hope 
Of  doing  good  to  men. 

*'  Of  the  assumption  of  the  rich  and  strong, 

The  degradation  of  the  poor  and  weak ; 
Of  want,  of  wretchedness  and  cruel  wrong, 
I  had  the  right  to  speak. 

VIII. 

<*  For  I  was  cradled  by  a  poor  man's  hearth. 
Where  daily  labor  earned  our  dally  bread ; 
Hunger  and  want  were  sponsors  at  my  birth. 
Cold  nightly  made  my  bed. 

**  I  saw  the  rich  man's  children  at  their  play. 

And  I  was  stung  by  taunting  word,  and  frown. 
And  mocking  laughter,  as  they  turned  away 
From  my  poor,  faded  gown. 

*'  My  mother  tried  to  soothe  me  when  I  wept. 

For  m  my  childish  heart  one  thought  was  sore ; 
It  haunted  me  m  dreamland,  when  I  slept, 
And  whispered,  '  You  are  poor.' 
349 


THE   PASTOR. 

"  She  said  :     *  My  daughter,  I  foresee  a  day,' 

And  then  the  tender  mother  wept  and  smiled, 
*  When  these  same  mockers  will  be  proud  to  say 
They  knew  you  as  a  child.' 

*'  Dear  soul,  sh*e  did  not  see  the  tidal  wave 

That  brought  to  me  a  priceless  argosy ; 
The  years  that  nursed  the  blossoms  on  her  grave, 
Fulfilled  her  prophecy. 

**  So  I  inherited  the  right  to  speak 

Of  want  and  suffering,  ignorance  and  wrong ; 
To  help  the  helpless,  to  uphold  the  weak. 
By  m}^  free  gift  of  song. 

*'And  whenso'er  my  busy  fancy  caught 

A  vision  of  the  coming  better-day, 
I  tried  to  paint  it,  wondering  as  I  wrought. 
If  he  would  read  my  lay. 

*'  He  gave  my  thought  too  often  shape  and  tone, 

And  much  I  questioned  wherefore  this  should  be ; 
For,  like  a  splendid  statue  wrought  in  stone, 
He  was  no  more  to  me. 

*'  I  sowed  my  seeds  beneath  God's  gracious  sky, 

Along  the  world's  highway  and  busy  mart. 
Trusting  their  bloom  would  gladden  some  sad  eye. 
Refresh  some  wear}-  heart. 
350 


THE   PASTOR. 

**  But,  in  the  pauses  of  my  work  and  brain, 

When  love  and  happiness  seemed  far  and  dim, 
And  all  m}'  earnest  labor  futile,  vain, 
M}'  thoughts  went  out  to  him. 

IX. 

*'At  length,  I  know  not  how  the  know^ledge  came, 

Came  like  a  starbeam  to  the  brow  of  night, 
That  I,  a  maiden  of  low  birth  and  name, 
Found  favor  in  his  sight. 

*'  But  when,  he  said  :     '  Come,  dear  Leona,  come, 

And  make  an  Eden  in  my  lonely  life, 
Bring  beauty,  bloom  and  music  to  my  home. 
As  my  beloved  wife  ;' 

"  I  could  not  answer  for  a  little  space. 

For  he  was  more  than  all  the  world  to  me ; 
I  dared  not  lift  my  eyes  to  his  dear  face, 
Yet  sighed,  '  It  can  not  be. 

"  '  Keep  thou  my  love  ;  it  was  not  lightly  won. 

And  will  be  true  to  thee,  in  deed  ;md  word. 
But  O,  I  can  not  give  my  hand  to  one 
Whose  lips  revile  my  Lord.' 

*'  He  turned  and  slowly  walked  along  the  path, 

With  knitted  brow,  as  he  were  sore  aggrieved. 
And  murmured,  'What  and  wherefore  is  this  faith 
That  I  have  not  received? 


THE   PASTOR. 

'* '  Nay,  I  can  not  believe — t'were  vain  to  tr}^,' 

And  looking  sadly  in  my  tear-stained  face, 
He  said,  '  This  taint  of  infidelity 
Is  in  my  blood  and  race.' 

**  Much  more  we  said,  it  boots  not  to  repeat ; 

His  arguments  were  eloquent,  but  vain  ; 
I  put  away  the  cup  so  tempting  sweet, 
God  knows  with  what  deep  pain. 

"When  long,  gray  shadows  fell  aslant  the  hills, 

And  setting  sunshine  drifted  soft  and  bright 
Along  the  level  leas  and  fretting  rills, 
To  kiss  the  world  good-night, 

**  With  one  long  look,  one  final  clasp  of  hands. 

Poor,  mute  interpreters  of  sorrow  sore, 
We  parted  where  the  waves,  on  sodden  sands. 
Knelt,  murmuring,  *  Nevermore  !' 


**  I  heard  men  praise  him,  but  we  never  met ; 

He  left  his  home  and  traveled  far  away. 
But  through  no  chance  or  change  did  I  forget 
That  twenty-fifth  of  May. 

**And  ever  when  it  came,  one  heart  at  least 

Lived  o'er  again  its  pangs  of  parting  pain. 
And,  at  the  self-same  hour,  kept  lonely  tryst 
Where  we  had  kept  it  twain. 
352 


THE   PASTOR. 

*'  Once,  as  I  sat  there,  when  the  sunset  shed 

A  rain  of  amber  Hght  on  sea  and  shore, 
Dreaming  of  all  he  looked  and  all  he  said 
That  time  three  years  before, 

*'  I  heard  a  well-known  footstep — could  it  be? 

Was  he  not  journeying  in  a  foreign  land? 
Nay,  I  beheld  the  face  so  dear  to  me, 
And  felt  his  clasping  hand. 

*"  I  did  not  hope  to  find  you  here,'  he  said ; 
'  But,  as  I  w^andered,  thinking  of  the  past, 
Followed  unwittingly  the  path  that  led 
To  where  I  saw^  you  last.' 

'  Then,  as  the  vesper  chimes  died  soft  and  sweet, 

And  starlight  came  and  kissed  the  pallid  sea, 
Sitting  together  on  the  same  old  seat, 
He  told  this  tale  to  me. 

XI. 

*'  *  There  was  a  proud,  stem  man,  unused  to  yield, 

Found  cold  and  stark,  or  so  the  legend  saith. 
Among  the  dying,  on  a  battlefield. 
Wounded  and  nigh  to  death. 

**  'Who  kindly  bore  him  thence,  he  never  knew, 
Nor  how  the  days  thereafter,  went  and  came ; 
Pallid  and  cold,  the  feeble  breath  he  drew 
Scarce  fanned  life's  flickerincr  flame. 

353  ^-23 


THE  PASTOR. 

*'  *  But  when,  from  that  deep  void  of  nothingness, 

The  torpid  fibers  of  his  heart  and  brain 
Were  stung  and  stirred  to  hfe  and  consciousness 
By  throes  and  pangs  of  pain. 

'* '  He  heard  a  gentle  footstep,  hght  as  air, 

And  felt  the  pressure  of  a  woman's  hand. 
But  knew  not  w-herefore  he  was  lying  there, 
Confined  with  splint  and  band. 

*'  He  tried  to  tax  his  memory,  but  it  reeled, 

And  all  his  thoughts  went  wandering,  vague  and 
weak, 
His  eyes  were  darkened  and  his  lips  were  sealed, 
He  could  not  move  nor  speak. 

**  'And  then  he  slept  again  the  dreamless  sleep 

Only  vouchsafed  to  wear^'  heait  and  brain, 
When  life  stands  by  her  citadel  to  keep 
At  bay  the  powers  of  pain  •, 

"  'And  wakened,  wondering  if  he  had  not  crossed 

The  fabled  river  to  the  unknown  shore ; 
Behind,  all  track  and  trace  of  time  were  lost — 
He  seemed  to  live  no  more. 

*'  'Thus  Life  and  Death  the  equal  battle  fought 
For  many  days — he  did  not  know  how  long  ; 
But  in  the  fiery  conflict  he  was  taught 
That  God  alone  is  strong. 

354 


THE   PASTOR. 

*' '  In  all  the  changes  of  his  life's  eclipse, 

That  gentle  woman  hovered  round  his  bed, 
Held  the  cool  cordial  to  his  burning  lips, 
.    And  bathed  his  aching  head. 

*' '  He  heard  her  footsteps  falling  all  day  long, 

Like  rose-leaves  shaken  by  the  summer  breeze, 
And  deemed  her  voice  sweet  as  a  love-bird's  song 
Among  the  tropic  trees.     . 

*' '  That  she  was  full  of  tenderness  and  grace ; 

Was  gentle,  pitiful  and  angel  kind. 
He  knew^  by  heart,  but  never  saw^  her  fac5, 
Because  his  eyes  were  blind. 

*' '  He  owed  her  life  for  life,  and  more,  he  said, 

Than  all  a  life's  devotion  could  requite. 
For  the  sweet  Christian  charity  that  led 
His  soul  from  dark  to  light. 

** '  Not  forms  and  creeds  did  she  essay  to  teach 

The  sick  soul  trembling  on  the  verge  of  time ; 
But,  in  the  simplest  words  of  human  speech. 
Asserted  truths  sublime. 

*' '  When  he,  despairing,  sighed  :     "  It  is  too  late. 

I  have  rebelled  against  the  Holy  Name.'' 
She  said :     *'  The  mercy  of  our  Lord  is  great. 
The  blessed  Savior  came. 
355 


THE   PASTOR. 

**  *  To  seek  the  lost  and  lowly  ;  suflered,  died 
For  aliens,  rebels,  outcasts  stained  with  sin, 
And  left  the  door  of  Mercy  open  wide, 
That  all  may  enter  in." 

**  'Then,  humbly  kneeling  by  his  lowly  bed. 

She  prayed  for  light  and  love  and  pardon  free. 
And  when  the  prayer  was  done,  the  sick  man  said  : 
"  Dear  Lord,  remember  me  !" 

XII, 

*'  I  asked :     'And  did  he  never  see  her  face, 

Nor  learn  her  name,  wherefore  and  whence  she 

came? 
Left  she  no  track,  no  clue  whereby  to  trace 

Her  dwelling  place  and  name  ? ' 

"  '  Nay,  in  the  latest  hour  of  that  long  night. 

When  blind  and  splint  and  bandage  were  with- 
drawn, 
And  he  beheld  again  the  blessed  light, 
His  gentle  nurse  was  gone. 

"  '  Rut  now  he  knows  his  angel,  whence  she  came ; 

He  traced  her  by  this  little  band  of  gold, 
His  blessed  talisman,  it  bears  a  name — 
"  Leona  Leigh  " — Behold  ! 

** '  You  said,  Leona — it  is  years  agone — 
But  I  remember  every  solemn  word  ; 

356 


THE   PASTOR. 

You  said :     "I  can  not  give  my  hand  to  one 
Whose  Hps  revile  my  Lord.'  " 

"Then,  as  our  eyes  grew  dim  with  happy  tears, 

And  gladsome  waves  went  singing  o'er  the  sands, 
We  pledged  each  other,  all  life's  future  years, 
And  once  again  clasped  hands." 


357 


^Jepj^-fBj^PTigJFET^ijpzijvieER/ 


\xx4 


HE  beautiful  home  he  made  is  there, 
Begirt  by  a  stately  lawn, 
But  over  its  beeches  bleak  and  bare, 
Winter  is  trailiiig  his  hoary  hair. 
And  brown  leaves  thrill  to  the  icy  air, 
A  plaint  for  the  summer  gone. 

And  all  night  long  the  wild  winds  go 

Sobbing  around  the  eaves. 
The  waves  of  the  streamlet  murmur  low 
A  sadder  song  than  they  used  to  know. 
Like  the  voice  of  one  that  grieves. 


The  birds  that  sang  in  the  forest  bowers 
To  brighter  skies  have  fled, 

35S 


JOHN    BAPTISTE   RITZINGER. 

And  the  golden-hearted  Hly  flowers. 
That  held  their  cups  to  the  summer  showers, 
And  dreamed  of  the  stars  in  stilly  hours 
Of  the  purple  night,  are  dead. 

But  spring  will  come  as  the  world  goes  round, 

With  silver-sandaled  feet ; 
Her  buried  treasures  will  all  be  found. 
The  flowers  and  forests  robed  and  crowned 

With  beauty  and  odors  sweet. 

The  winds  on  a  thousand  harps  will  play 

Their  sweet  old  melody, 
And  the  waves  will  chant  a  roundelay, 
As  they  weave  their  crowns  of  pearly  spray, 
And  link  their  hands  to  dance  away 

To  their  bridal  with  the  sea. 

But  he  who  cherished  each  shrub  and  tree, 
Who  loved  each  nook  and  turn 

Of  shadowy  valley,  sunny  lea 

And  babbling  brooklet — will  he  see 
The  riant  spring  return  ? 

Nay  !  flowers  may  bloom  in  the  fair  home-place, 

And  tuneful  wild  birds  sing ; 
But  the  light  of  his  beloved  face, 
His  gentle  voice,  and  the  tender  grace 
Of  his  clasping  hand,  his  fond  embrace. 

No  chanw,  no  charm  can  brincr. 

359 


JOHN   BAPTISTE   RITZINGER. 

When  the  days  of  his  years  were  bright, 

His  dream  of  the  future  grand : 
In  voiceless  hours  of  a  summer  night 
He  calmly  passed  from  our  human  sight, 
Away  to  the  unknown  land. 


Alas,  for  the  loss,  the  grief,  the  tears. 

Of  fond  hearts  stricken  sore, 
Whose  love  will  listen  adown  the  years, 
For  the  one  dear  voice  it  never  hears, 

For  the  step  that  comes  no  more. 


From  the  ruthless  wTeck  of  bright  days  flown, 

Their  memor^^  will  recall 
A  glance,  a  smile,  a  tender  tone. 
Or  a  loving  word  of  the  darling  gone : 
These  priceless  treasures  are  still  their  own — 

Alas,  that  these  are  all. 


His  life,  in  its  every  act  and  aim, 

Was  lovely  to  its  close, 
No  taint  of  wrong,  no  breath  of  blame 
Sullied  the  whiteness  of  his  fame, 
Leaving  the  light  of  a  spotless  name, 
He  went  to  his  repose. 

Farewell,  O  noblr.  genial  heart ! 

For  thee  ihcic  is  no  more  pam. 
360 


JOHN    BAPTISTE   RITZINGEP.. 

Death  gave  thee  life's  immortal  part, 
And  love  shall  find  thee  where'er  thou  art, 
God  rest  thee — wiedersehen. 

Beech  Bank,  February,  1878. 


361 


•>5^PE-f^EWI]V[6-f6lRIi. 


a  garish,  fetid  chamber, 

Strewn  with  satins,  hiwns  and  pearls, 
On  a  chill  night  in  November, 
r'Z->-^./:^e>^     Sat  a  group  of  sewing  girls. 


Through  the  long  and  lonesome  hours 
Ceaselessly  their  fingers  plied,     ^ 

Fitting  laces,  gems  and  flowers, 
To  adorn  a  fair  young  bride. 

Midnight's  solemn  time  departed 
Ere  their  work  was  well  begun, 

And  they  listened,  heavj'-hearted, 
To  the  old  bell  tolling  one. 

Bending  down  their  sad,  pale  faces, 
Straining  wearily  their  sight 
362 


THE   SEWING  GIRL. 

O'er  the  silks  and  Mechlin  laces, 
By  the  gas-lamp's  piercing  light. 

Still  they  wrought,  with  none  to  pit}- — 
Wrought  with  fingers  cold  and  blue, 

Till  above  the  slumbering  city, 
Loud  and  long  the  bell  tolled  two. 

//. 

There  was  one  slight  creature  sharing 

Silently  that  unrepose ; 
One  whose  blighted  life  was  wearing 

Very  swiftly  to  its  close. 

From  the  light  so  strong  and  dizzy 

Wearily  she  drew  apart. 
For  a  burning  pain  was  busy 

Gnawing,  gnawing  at  her  heart. 

Where  the  heavy  window-curtain 
Half  concealed  her  with  its  fold, 

And  the  red  light  fell  uncertain, 
She  sat  shivering  with  the  cold. 

Till,  the  silken  lashes  stealing 
O'er  her  eyes  so  blue  and  mild. 

She  went  forth,  m  sleep's  revealing, 
Once  again  a  little  child, 

3^3 


THE   SEWING   GIRL. 

Through  the  copses  and  the  meadows, 
Where  the  breezes  sung  all  day, 

While  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 
Nursed  the  fair  young  flowers  of  May ; 

Where  the  fragrant  grass  was  springing 

In  the  early  summer  time, 
And  the  minstrel  streamlet  singing 

To  itself  its  own  sweet  rhyme ; 

Through  the  tangled  hazel  bushes, 

Where  the  clustering  wild  grapes  hung, 

And  the  yellow-breasted  thrushes 
Loved  to  rear  their  twittering  young. 

IV, 

Morning's  ruddy  sunlight  kissed  her, 
Through  the  cloudy  window-pane. 

Ere  the  wear}-  toilers  missed  her 
Who  would  never  toil  again. 

Wondering  much  they  gathered  round  her ; 

On  lier  lips  there  was  no  breath, 
And  the  fearful  spell  that  bound  her 

Was  the  dull,  cold  sleep  of  death! 

364 


THE   SEWING   GIRL. 

On  her  cheek  the  tear-drop  gleaming 
Was  the  last  to  sorrow  given, 

As  her  gentle  soul  went  dreaming 
With  the  angels  up  to  Heaven. 


Indianapolis,  1850. 


365 


i  ► 


^J-^ 


^I^CHN-^NOT-fC^IiIi-fPER^JiiloTHER/ 


SET   TO    MUSIC. 


HE  marriage  rite  is  over, 

And  though  I  turned  aside, 
To  keep  the  guests  from  seeing 

The  tears  I  could  not  hide ; 
I  wreathed  my  face  in  smihng. 

And  led  my  little  brother 
To  greet  my  fathers  chosen, 

But  I  could  not  call  her  mother. 

She  is  a  fair  young  creature 

With  a  meek  and  gentle  air, 
With  blue  eyes  soft  and  loving, 

And  silken,  sunn}-  hair; 
I  know  my  father  gives  her 

The  love  he  bore  another, 
But  if  she  were  an  angol, 

I  could  not  call  her  mother. 
-.66 


I   CAN   NOT   CALL    HER   MOTHER. 

To-night  I  heard  her  singing 

A  song  I  used  to  love, 
When  its  sweetest  notes  were  uttered 

By  her  who  sings  above  ; 
It  pained  my  heart  to  hear  it, 

And  my  tears  I  could  not  smother 
For  every  word  was  hallowed 

By  the  dear  voice  of  my  mother. 

My  father,  m  the  sunshine 

Of  die  happy  days  to  come, 
May  half  forget  the  shadow 

That  darkened  our  old  home ; 
His  heart  no  more  is  lonely, 

But  I  and  little  brother 
Must  still  be  orphan  children — 

God  can  give  us  but  one  mother. 

They've  borne  my  mother's  picture 

From  its  accustomed  place, 
And  set  beside  my  father's 

A  younger,  fairer  face  ; 
They've  made  her  dear  old  chamber 

The  boudoir  of  another, 
But  I  will  not  forget  thee, 

My  own,  my  angel  mother. 


367 


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CURIOUS  clay-built  tenement, 
Thou  art  no  longer  fresh  and  fair ; 
I9  Thy  time-stained  walls  are  bowed  and  bent. 
Thy  windows  much  the  worse  for  wear. 

Thy  sunken  eaves,  discolored  thatch, 
Distorted  portal,  creaking  stair. 

And  columns,  marred  by  seam  and  scratch, 
Are  ruined  all,  beyond  repair. 

And  yet,  me  seems,  it  is  not  long 

Since  thou  wert  new,  erect  and  right — 

Thy  jointed  timbers  firm  and  strong. 
Thy  facade  fair,  thy  windows  bright. 

Now  thou  art  shaken  by  the  storm, 
And  pervious  to  the  wind  and  cold ; 

No  fires  within  can  keep  thcc  warm. 
Or  free  thy  walls  from  damp  and  mold. 
36S 


MY   HOUSE. 

Yet,  in  this  ruin,  grim  and  gray. 

My  soul  sits  dreaming  pleasant  dreams, 

Of  some  fair  country  far  away, 

Beyond  the  hills  where  sunset  gleams. 

And  often  w^hen  the  stars  appear. 
And  silence  falls  on  fields  and  fells. 

Listening,  she  hears,  or  seems  to  hear, 
In  that  fair  land  the  vesper  bells.  * 

And  in  her  dream  she  hears  the  tread 
Of  friends  beloved  gone  before. 

And  knows  they  are  not  lost,  not  dead, 
But  dwellers  on  that  unseen  shore. 

And,  ever  as  the  sw^eet  bells  chime. 

She  longs  to  break  earth's  bars  and  bands. 

To  find,  in  that  celestial  clime,  \ 

Her  home — her  house  not  made  with  hands. 

Beech  Bank,  August,  1S75. 


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HERE  is  mourning  by  our  altars, 

There  is  silence  in  our  halls — 
Weeps  the  genius  of  our  country, 

Wefeps  the  warder  on  lier  walls  ; 
Briglit  young  eyes  are  dim  with  sorrow, 

Strong,  brave  hearts  are  sad  and  lorn, 
Wherefore  comes  the  heavy  shadow? 

Wherefore  do  the  people  mourn  ? 

Is  our  happy  land  invaded  ? 

Does  the  ruthless  foeman's  tread 
Desecrate  our  sacred  hearthstones 

And  the  green  graves  of  our  dead? 
Is  the  battle  clarion  peal  in;; 

O'er  our  sunny  plains  and  hills? 
Does  the  life-blood  of  our  brothers 

Mingle  with  our  sparkling  rills? 
370 


HENRY   CLAY. 

No  ;  there  is  no  clarion  pealing, 

And  we  hear  no  foeman's  tread  ; 
But  our  land  is  clad  in  sackcloth, 

For  a  noble  champion  dead — 
One  she  cradled  on  her  bosom. 

In  her  hour  of  doubt  and  fear. 
When  her  brow  was  bound  with  shadows, 

When  her  way  was  dim  and  drear. 

One  who,  with  her  brave  defenders, 

Strove  with  heart,  and  mind,  and  might, 
And  a  trust  that  never  faltered 

In  the  cause  of  human  right. 
One  who  lived  to  see  her  sitting. 

With  her  ensign  stars  unfurled, 
Like  a  city  on  a  mountain. 

Giving  light  to  all  the  world. 

He  has  fallen  at  the  zenith 

Of  his  glory  and  renown, 
Ere  a  single  leaf  had  faded 

In  his  radiant,  laurel  crown, 
But  the  work  that  Heaven  appointed 

To  his  long,  long  life  is  done. 
And  his  weary  soul  is  resting 

In  the  starry  goal  it  won. 

With  adoring  love  for  Freedom, 
Scorn  of  old  Oppression's  rod. 

And  a  genius  fused  and  kindled 
At  the  altar  of  our  God, 
371 


HENRY   CLAY. 

He  could  sweep  the  human  heart-strings, 
As  the  minstrel  sweeps  the  lyre, 

To  all  passions,  all  emotions, 
By  his  soul's  electric  hre. 

Never,  in  our  country's  forum, 

Blazed  a  brighter,  broader  light ; 
Never  fought  a  braver  spirit. 

In  the  battle  for  the  right. 
Lay  him  down  to  sleep  in  Ashland, 

With  his  broken  household  band — 
Pilgrim  feet  to  that  Medina 

Will  go  forth  from  many  a  land. 


Indianapolis,  Jllv,  1852. 


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^ 


I 


the  midst  of  his  children's  children,  by  the 

home-fire's  cheerful  blaze, 
An  old  man  sat  in  an  easy  chair,  dreaming 

of  by-gone  days  ; 
Dreaming  of  wearisome  marches,  by  flood, 

morass  and  wold  ; 
Where   many   a  brave    heart    fainted   with 

hunger,  and  thirst,  and  cold ; 
Dreaming  of  midnight  watches  in  the  dreary 

drizzling  rain, 
And  the  hum  of  his  comrades'  voices,  that 

he  never  should  hear  again  ; 
Of  the  smouldering  fires  of  the  bivouac,  the 

sentinel's  measured  tread, 
The  smoke  and  roar  of  the  battle,  and  the 

faces  of  the  dead  ; 
Of  the  fair  young  son  of  his  neighbor,  who 

fought  and  fell  by  his  side, 
373 


RALPH    FARNHAM'S    LAST   DREAM. 

And  the  sacred  message  he  gave  him  to  his  girl-love  when 

he  died. 
He  saw  the  face  of  the  maiden  grow  as  cold  as  death,  and 

as  pale, 
As  he  sat  by  her  father's  hearthstone   and  told  her  the 

cruel  tale. 


**Ay,  ay!"  in  his  sleep  he  murmured,  *'she  was  fair  and 

he  was  brave, 
But  she  faded  away  like  a  blossom,  and  we  made  him  a 

soldier's  grave. 

374 


RALPH   FARNHAM'S   LAST   DREAM. 

But  we  routed  the  British  legions  and  sent  them  over  the 

sea, 
For  the  God  of  battles  helped  us,  and  our  native  land  was 

free. 
My  children,  I  have  been  dreaming  a  dream  that  gave  me 

pain : 
I  thought  I  was  young,  and  a  soldier  fighting  for  Freedom 

again. 
I  saw  the  tents  and  the  banners,  and  the  shming  ranks  of 

the  foe. 
And  the  crimson  tracks  our  poor  recruits  left  on  the  frozen 

snow. 
But  is  it  true,  this  rumor,  or  only  an  idle  tale? 
Do  they  talk  of   dissolving  the  Union?     Ah,  well  may 

your  cheek  grow  pale  ; 
And  well  may  an   old  man  tremble,  and  his  heart  beat 

faint  and  low. 
When  he  thinks  of  the  price  it  cost  us  some  four-score 

years  ago ! 
I   have  watched  its  growing  greatness  through  a  life  of 

many  vears. 
But  I  never  forgot  that  its  blessings  were  purchased  with 

blood  and  tears  • 
I  never  forgot  the  privations  of  four-score  years  ago. 
When  the  naked  feet  of  our  poor  recruits  left  crimson 

tracks  in  the  snow. 
I  never  forgot  their  faces,  and  I  seem  to  see  them  still. 
Who  looked  straight  into  the  face  of  death  at  the  battle  of 

Bunker's  Hill. 
And  so  the  home  of  Marion  is  first  to  break  the  band. 
That  bound  the  beautiful  sisterhood  of  our  beloved  land ; 

375 


RALPH   FARNHAM'S   LAST   DREAM. 

The  children  of  the  heroes  around  whose  memory  clings 
The   glory   of   King's   Mountain,  Cowpens    and   Eutavv 

Springs? 
I  saw  our  blessed  banner,  with  its  white  and  crimson  bars. 
When  fair  South  Carolina  was  one  of  the  thirteen  stars ; 
And  if  ever  that  constellation  is  marred  or  rent  in  twain, 
It  would  blast  the  sight  of  these  poor  old  eyes  to  see  its 

folds  again. 
If  God  has  forsaken  our  country,  the  only  boon  I  crave 
Is  that  He  will  delay  its  ruin  till  I  have  gone  down  to  the 

grave ; 
For  I  could  not  breathe  with  traitors,  nor  turn  my  face  to 

the  sun, 
Nor  dwell  in  the  land  of  the  living,  when  these  States  are 

no  longer  one." 

Indianapolis,  Apkil,  i86i. 


376 


^JaDI^PP^-^ND^P^MHERNEg. 


sleeps  !    O  God,  I  thank  thee  for  this  hour ! 

And  now,  I  pray  thee,  nerve  my  feeble 
hand, 
And,  in  thy  mercy,  give  thy  servant  power 

To  smite  the  desolater  of  our  land. 

Hath  he  not  purposed  in  his  impious  heart, 
To  waste  thy  people  with  the  sword  and 
flame? 
To  rend  thy  sanctuary's  veil  apart. 

And   break   the   altar   graven  with  thy 
name? 


O  Thou  whose  throne  is  lifted  up  on  high — 
Our    fathers'    God,    our    strength,    our 
shield,  our  trust, 
In  glorious  might  and  majesty  draw  nigh. 
And  raise  thy  suffering  children  from  the 
dust. 

377 


JUDITH   AND    HOLOFERNES. 

Hark  !     Heard  I  not  a  footstep  stealing  near? 

Or  was  it  but  the  whispering  wind?     My  brain 
Coins  dreadful  images  !     Away  with  fear  I 

Stem  Holofernes  must  not  wake  again. 

He  mutters  execrations  low  and  deep, 

And  o'er  his  face  strange  shadows  come  and  go, 

As  though  the  demons  mocked  him  in  his  sleep. 
With  horrid  visions  of  the  world  of  woe. 

His  proud  Hp  quivers,  his  flushed  cheek  grows  pale. 

Quails  his  fierce  soul  before  a  spectre  band? 
Or  is  he  startled  by  the  low,  wild  wail 

Of  those  who  fell  beneath  his  reeking  brand? 

I  grasp  his  battle-falchion  ;  it  must  drink 

His  life-blood  from  the  fountain.     This  I  owe 

To  earth  and  Heaven  ;  and  yet,  O  God  I  I  shrink, 
With  woman's  fearfulness,  to  strike  the  blow. 

Be  strong,  my  soul  I     Night  waneth  to  its  close. 
And  I  have  bound  me,  that  to-morrow's  sun 

Shall  bring  dismay,  confusion  to  our  foes. 

So  help  me,  Heaven  I     Thank  God,  the  deed  is 
done ! 

Now,  let  Assyria's  minions  w.iil  and  weep, 
And  sing  sad  dirges  o'er  thee,  pulseless  clod  I 

Tears,  lamentations,  can  not  break  the  sleep 

That  binds  thy  heart,  proud  scorner  of  our  God. 

378 


JUDITH   AND   HOLOFERNES. 

If  in  the  hour  of  triumph  thou  hadst  died, 

They  might  have  borne  thee  thence  upon  thy  shield, 

With  waving  banners,  paeans,  pomp  and  pride — 
A  glorious  hero,  from  the  battletield. 

But  righteous  Heaven,  in  wrath,  denied  the  last 
And  dearest  boon  to  thee,  that  warriors  crave ; 

And  most  ignobly  thy  dark  soul  hath  passed 
From  Bacchanalian  feasting  to  the  grave. 

Now  let  Bethulia  raise  the  triumph-strain, 

And  let  the  heathen  shout,  in  all  their  coasts — 

A  w^oman  of  the  Israelites  hath  slain 
The  mighty  captain  of  Assyria's  hosts. 


379 


^^Indi^N^.*^ 


(HOUGH  many  laud  Italia's  clime, 
^And  call  Helvetia's  land  sublime, 
Tell  Gallia's  praise  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

And  worship  old  Hispania  ; 
The  winds  of  Heaven  never  fanned, 
The  circling  sunlight  never  spanned 
The  borders  of  a  better  land 
Than  our  own  Indiana. 


Encrowned  with  forests  grand  and  old, 
Enthroned  on  mineral  wealth  untold, 
Coining  her  soil  to  yellow  gold, 

Through  labor's  great  arcana. 
She  fosters  commerce,  science,  art. 
With  willing  hands  and  generous  heart, 
And  sends  to  many  a  foreign  mart 

Products  of  Indiana. 
380 


INDIANA. 

Where  late  the  birchen  wigwam  stood, 
Or  Indian  braves  their  game  pursued, 
And  Indian  maids  were  won  and  wooed, 

By  light  of  soft  Diana, 
Fair  cities  as  by  magic  rise, 
With  church  towers  pointing  to  the  skies, 
And  schools  that  charm  the  world's  wide  eyes 

To  fair  young  Indiana. 

And,  where  some  fifty  years  ago. 
The  settler's  wagon  lumbered  slow 
Through  mud,  and  mire,  and  frozen  snow, 

O'er  hillside  and  savannah. 
The  steam  car,  with  its  fiery  eyes. 
Like  some  mad  demon  pants  and  flies, 
Startlmg  the  echoes  with  its  cries 

Throughout  all  Indiana. 

Not  to  old  realms,  with  palace  piles 
And  crowned  kings — nor  sea-girt  isles. 
Wherein  perpetual  summer  smiles 

On  bread-fruit  and  banana, 
Could  we,  in  word  or  thought  compare, 
The  free  domain,  the  balmy  air, 
The  silver  streams  and  valleys  fair. 

Of  genial  Indiana. 

With  kindly  word  and  friendly  hand 
She  welcomes  sons  of  every  land, 

3S1 


IJN  DIANA. 

From  Hammerfest  to  Samarcand, 

From  India  to  Britannia  ; 
And  many  a  toiler,  sore  opprest 
In  olden  lands,  has  found  his  quest- 
A  happy  homestead — on  the- breast 
Of  fruitful  Indiana. 


She  gives  the  hungry  stranger  bread  ; 
Her  helpless  poor  are  clothed  and  fed 
As  freely  as  the  Father  spread 

The  feast  of  mystic  manna. 
The  sick  in  body,  wrecked  in  mind, 
The  orphaned  child,  the  dumb,  the  blind, 
A  free  and  safe  asylum  find 

In  generous  Indiana. 

Her  gentle  mothers,  pure  and  good, 
In  stately  homes  or  cabins  rude. 
Are  types  of  noble  womanhood  ; 

Her  girls  are  sweet  and  cannie ; 
Her  sons,  among  the  bravest,  brave. 
Call  no  man  master,  no  man  slave — 
Holding  the  heritage  God  gave 

In  fee  to  Indiana. 

But  even  while  our  hearts  rejoice 
In  the  dear  home-land  of  our  choice, 
We  should,  with  one  united  voice. 
Give  llianks,  and  sing  I  losanna 

382 


INDIANA. 

To  Him  whose  love  and  bounteous  grace 
Gave  to  the  people  of  our  race 
A  freehold,  an  abiding  place, 
In  fertile  Indiana. 

Beech  Bank,  August,  ^^79. 


383 


i  ?*v  ?^  ■,-;  o  r^;>  5^;  '^  , 


i  ^"^   ^^   M   O   M   ^ 


^ 


* 


•^Inn^WIiE-f  ^GBE^jp-fCpURCPJI^N,  > 


OF   HILLSIDE. 


LITTLE  wanderer  from  a  clime 
That  lies  beyond  the  bound  of  time, 

In  some  fair  zone  ; 
Thou  didst  not  come  with  sword  in  hand. 
With  herald,  knight  or  armed  band. 
To  take  possession  of  the  land, 

To  thee  unknown. 

And  yet  thou  hast  subjected  all 

Of  kith  and  kindred,  great  and  small, 

In  nursery,  parlor,  boudoir,  hall. 

To  thy  sweet  sway. 
Without  a  word,  without  a  sign, 
Thy  wants  and  wishes  they  divine, 
And  all  they  have  to  give  is  thine. 

By  night  or  day. 

384 


LITTLE   ROBERT   CHURCHMAN. 

They  serve  thee  well,  and  not  through  fear 
Of  pain  or  penalty  severe 

That  thou  couldst  bring — 
Nor  hope  of  gW)d  thou  couldst  impart ; 
But  for  the  sake  of  what  thou  art, 
Love  builds  thy  throne  in  every  heart, 

And  crowns  thee  king. 

Aye,  crowns  thee  king  of  Babyland — 
King  of  the  home,  the  household  band, 
And  never  monarch  grown  and  grand 

Was  half  so  sweet. 
From  spotless  brow  and  silken  hair 
And  dainty  lips,  beyond  compare. 
And  hands  like  Alpine  snow-flowers  rare 

To  dimpled  feet. 

Once,  little  one,  I  knew  right  well 
The  sunny  realm  where  thou  dost  dwell 

In  pleasant  dreams. 
But  that  w^as  in  the  Long  Ago, 
And  time  and  care  have  changed  me  so, 
That,  for  the  nonce,  I  do  not  know 

E'en  how  it  seems  ; 

Nor  how  the  fair,  young  flowers  and  leaves, 
That  sibyl  summer  wears  and  weaves, 

To  thee  appear ; 
Nor  if  the  zephyr,  wandering  free, 

385  -^26 


LITTLE   ROBERT   CHURCHMAN. 

Whisper  sweet  messages  to  thee, 
In  tones,  whose  tender  melodie 
We  can  not  hear. 


Perchance  the  sky,  to  us  so  blue, 
To  thee  wears  some  diviner  hue. 
With  golden  pathways  gleaming  through, 

As  twilight  falls : 
Perchance  thine  eyes,  so  new  and  bright, 
With  stronger  vision,  clearer  sight. 
Discern  the  angels  on  the  height 

Of  jasper  walls. 

O  Babyland,  so  calm,  so  fair, 

So  free  from  sorrow,  sin  and  care ; 

Who  would  not  wish  to  linger  there, 

In  happy  thrall? 
Where  none  are  great  or  over- wise. 
Nor  struggling  for  the  hollow  prize. 
That  manhood  seeks  and  fate  denies 

To  nearly  all. 

But,  little  prince,  thou  canst  not  stay 
In  pleasant  Babyland  alway  ; 

Heaven  has  assigned 
A  broader  path,  for  by-and-by 
God  only  knows  where  it  may  lie, 
Within  what  land,  beneath  what  sky, 

But  thou  wilt  find 

3¥ 


LITTLE   ROBERT   CHURCHMAN. 

Sufficient  work  for  hand  and  head, 

Where  hearts  are  wrecked  and  tears  are  shed 

Above  the  hving  and  the  dead ; 

And  I  do  pray 
That  thy  wee  hand  may  then  be  strong 
To  grapple  old  misrule  and  wrong, 
And  help  the  helpless  ones  that  throng 

The  world's  highway. 

And  may  thy  heart,  so  pure  and  new, 
Be  ever  pure,  and  ever  true 

To  work  and  wait. 
There  is  a  prize  for  all  who  dare 
To  strive,  to  suffer  and  to  bear ; 
A  crown  for  hero  brows  to  wear, 

In  spite  of  fate. 

Then,  darling,  I  shall  not  be  here. 
But,  may  be,  from  some  higher  sphere, 
That  seems  so  far,  but  is  so  near, 

I  may  look  through 
And  see  thee,  clothed  with  manhood's  might, 
Armed  with  the  truth,  in  broader  light, 
Doing  brave  battle  for  the  right, 

The  good,  the  true. 

Beech  Bank,  October,  1878. 


387 


o-^" 


^2/2^- 


^^L^YIN6:TPE:  Corner  :3^®NE> 


OF    A    NEWSPAPER    OFFICE. 


TMTKL^^^JA.^ 


RIENDS,  while  we  lay  the  corner  stone. 
Whereon  a  lofty  fane  shall  rise, 
Hope  utters  in  an  undertone 
Her  golden  prophesies. 


Says  :     *'  Here  a  Phoenix  shall  be  bom, 
With  glowing  heart  and  eagle  eyes. 

And   wings  where   radiant   thoughts   shall 
burn, 
As  stars  along  the  skies." 

And  day  and  night,  through  years  to  be, 
From  this  fair  temple  of  its  birth, 

It  shall  go  forth  by  land  and  sea, 
Over  the  broad,  green  earth. 


With  touching  tales  of  love  and  truth, 
With  earnest  pleadings  for  the  poor, 

V  388 


LAYING  THE  CORNER  STONE. 

Beguiling  age,  restraining  youth, 
Teaching  from  door  to  door. 


Warning  the  present  by  the  past, 
Far  seeing  with  prophetic  sight ; 

And  when  the  sky  is  overcast, 
Saying :     ''  Let  there  be  Hght." 


Shielding  the  innocent,  the  weak, 
Pointing  the  shame  of  sin  and  crime, 

Teaching  all  men  to  think  and  speak, 
In  every  land  and  clime. 


Searching  the  deepest  mine  of  thought. 
Comparing,  scanning,  weighing  all 

The  gems  that  gifted  minds  have  wrought, 
Of  good,  or  great,  or  small. 

Unawed  by  law  of  clan  or  creed. 

Unswayed  by  forms  of  Now  or  Then, 

Working  and  taking  earnest  heed 
For  the  sole  good  of  men. 

A  faithful  warder  on  the  walls 

That  guard  our  country's  jewels  rare, 

To  stir  the  world  with  clarion  calls 
When  danger  threatens  there. 

389 


LAYING  THE  CORNER  STONE. 

To  guard  through  darkest  days  and  nights, 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  bar  and  ban, 

The  glorious  charter  of  our  rights — 
The  eternal  rights  of  man. 


A  leader,  faithful  to  his  trust, 

To  guide  aright  in  storm  or  calm. 

Bearing  aloft  from  soil  and  dust, 
Fair  Freedom's  oriflamme. 


Leaving  the  old,  dead  past  behind. 

Bridging  the  space  from  clime  to  clime, 

And  ushering  m  with  heart  and  mind 
The  coming,  better  time. 

And,  stronger  than  the  warrior's  sword. 
And  mightier  than  the  monarch's  crown 

Shall  be  the  thunder  of  his  word, 
To  trample  error  down. 

To  mold  perverted  minds  anew. 
To  rend  the  bigot's  veil  apart, 

And  write  the  pure,  the  good,  the  true 
Deep  in  the  world's  great  heart. 


?9^ 


^^Tpe4-End.5}£<- 


/. 


HY  was  she  waiting  and  watching  there — 
Watching  alone  in  the  ghostly  night? 

i     Her  form  was  haggard  with  want  and  care, 
Her  face  was  drawn  and  ashen  white. 

Why  did  she  shudder  and  wring  her  hands, 
And  strain  her  eyes  through  the  window 
pane? 
There  was  nothing  in  sight  but  the  sodden 
lands — 
Nothing  astir  but  the  wind  and  rain. 


She  was  wa^tching  the  path  that  leads  from 
town, 
And    listening    to    hear    her    husband's 
tread  ; 
Shivering  with  cold  in  her  tattered  gown, 
And  keeping  vigil  beside  her  dead. 
391 


THE   END. 


//. 


'*  O  God,"  she  pleaded,  "if  I  must  bear 
This  weary  woe  till  my  heart  shall  break, 

In  tender  compassion  hear  my  prayer. 
And  save  my  husband  for  Jesus'  sake. 

"  In  happier  days  he  loved  me  well ; 

He  was  good  and  true,  in  heart  and  mind. 
Till,  tempted  beyond  his  strength,  he  fell — 

Pity  him  Lord,  he  is  mad  and  blind." 

Stirring  the  coals  to  a  feeble  glow. 
She  drew  a  shawl  from  the  pallid  face 

Of  her  child,  that  died  three  hours  ago, 
And  took  it  up  in  a  fond  embrace. 

And  murmured,  kissing  the  waxen  brow. 
And  tenderly  parting  the  silken  hair  : 

**  There  is  nothing  left  to  love  me  now  ; 
My  burden  is  more  than  I  can  bear. 

**0  dainty  hands  and  dimpled  feet, 
Always  so  busy  with  prank  and  play ! 

O  lips  that  lisped  so  soft  and  sweet : 
*  Mamma,  I  love  oo,'  but  yesterday  I 

**  How  can  I  tear  you  from  out  my  heart. 
And  lay 'you  under  the  cold,  dark  sod? 
392 


THE    END. 

How  can  I  live  when  we  are  apart, 
My  darling  baby?     Help  me,  O  God ! 

**  Dreary  and  cold  is  the  way  before. 
With  nothing  to  lose,  nothing  to  win  ; 

O,  Father  in  Heaven,  open  the  door, 
And  let  a  wear}^-  wanderer  in  I  " 

III. 

She  sat  as  the  long,  weird  hours  went  by. 

With  her  sad  eyes  fixed  on  the  window  pane ; 

But  she  ceased  to  hear  the  night  wind's  sigh, 
And  the  dreary  drip  of  the  winter  rain. 

When  morning  dawned  on  the  misty  moor, 
A  drunkard,  maddened  with  poisoned  rum, 

Came  blindh'  staggering  through  the  door 
Of  the  wretched  hut  he  called  his  home. 

If  he  saw  his  pale  wife  sitting  there. 

He  took  no  notice,  nor  deigned  to  speak. 

But  crept,  as  a  beast  might  creep  to  his  lair 

From  hunting  blood  hounds,  wounded  and  weak. 

IV, 

By  trembling  lips  the  news  was  told. 
And  neighbors  came  with  hurrying  feet. 

And  arrayed  the  sleepers  still  and  cold, 
In  the  folds  of  a  simple  winding  sheet. 
393 


THE    END. 

And  many  a  pitying  tear  was  shed 

For  those  whom  death  had  failed  to  part. 

As  they  laid  the  baby's  sunny  head, 
Close  to  the  mother's  silent  heart. 


At  length  the  drunkard  awoke  and  said  : 
'*Alice,  I'm  sick  ;  I  must  have  some  rum. 

Or  this  burning  pain  will  burst  my  head. 
Alice  !  I  say — are  you  deaf  and  dumb  ? 

**  Ho,  they  are  coming  for  me — see  there  I 
The  devils  are  coming  hot  from  hell — 

See,  see  !  how  their  eyeballs  burn  and  glare  !  " 
And  he  sprung  to  his  feet  with  a  fearful  yell. 

With  face  as  white  as  the  face  of  death, 
The  maniac  stood  subdued  and  cowed — 

Stood  staring  around  with  bated  breath, 

Then  clutched  the  folds  of  the  snowy  shroud. 

**  What :     Have  I  killed  her  at  last?"  he  said, 

O  cursed  drink,  is  this  the  end? 
A  pistol  shot — and  the  man  fell  dead 

By  the  murdered  wife,  his  one,  last  friend. 


394 


^In  Y0C^TieNv¥0  v3FpE :  We^¥  :•  WlND.^H^ 


HOU  comest  from  the  West-land,  O  gentle 
Autumn  breeze, 
And  bearest  thou  some  message  from  my 
home  beyond  the  seas? 


Hast   passed   the   little   cottage  where  my 

earthly  treasures  dwell? 
Then  stay,  O  wind,  and  tell  me,  "  They  are 

happy,  they  are  well." 

Hast  seen  my  little  Ada,  with  her  gentle, 

tender  face? 
My  fiery-souled  Helena,  and  the  toddling 

baby  Grace? 


395 


INVOCATION. 

Were   they  playing  in  the  sunshine  beside  the  cottage 

door? 
Or  dancing  down  the  pathway  that  I  may  tread  no  more  ? 

Were  they  seeking  spotted  pebbles  along  the  rippling  rill  ? 
Or  gathering  red  and  russet  leaves  around  the  low,  green 
hill? 

Didst  toss  the  tangled  ringlets  of  each  sunny  little  head  ? 
Were  they  singing — were  they  talking?     Prithee,  tell  me 
what  they  said. 

Ah,   no !      Thou    goest   toying  with   the   faded   Autumn 

leaves, 
And  whispering  down  the  fallow  to  the  shocks  of  golden 

sheaves. 

For  ever}^  fern  and  floweret  along  the  grassy  lea 
Thou  hast  a  litde  story,  but  never  a  word  for  me. 

Dresden,  Saxony,  October,  1872. 


-$-^|o|e-$- 


396 


^^tIietter.^ 


& 


^ERE  is  a  letter  from  Mistress  Love," 

I  said:    "May  the  good  Lord  bless  her. 
May  the  beautiful  souls  in  Heaven  above, 
With  their  snow-v^^hite  wings,  caress  her. 

"  May  all  the  genii  of  earth  and  air 
With  their  choicest  gifts  attend  her, 

To  make  the  days  of  her  life  as  fair 
As  her  heart  is  true  and  tender ; 

*'  To  smooth  the  path  of  her  coming  feet, 
P'orefend  the  shadow  of  sorrow, 

Make  all  the  dreams  of  her  sleeping  sweet. 
And  crown  with  a  joy  each  morrow. 

"May  the  Love  she  won  as  a  fair  young 
bride 
In  a  fond  embrace  enfold  her. 
And  through  every  change  of  time  and  tide 
Grow  dearer  in  growing  older. 
397 


A  LETTER. 

*'And  when  the  summer  is  past  and  gone, 

In  the  beautiful  autumn  weather, 
May  they  walk  where  the  falling  leaves  are  strown 

To  the  end  of  the  way  together." 

My  heart  is  glad,  and  my  hand  makes  haste 

To  answer  her  graceful  letter, 
For  the  kindly  words  her  fingers  traced 

Have  made  me  happier,  better. 

Beech  Bank,  April  4, 


39« 


(P A 


^Cer(iNNE-fTO^0gw??DD.< 


O,  Oswald,  no  !     I  can  not  see  thee  now. 
*       1  have  been  very  ill ;  I  am  too  weak 
To  look  unmoved  upon  thine  altered  brow. 
S))     For  countless  worlds  I  would  not  hear 
thee  speak 
Cold  words  of  courtesy ;    and   wherefore 

seek 
To  see  this  wrecked,  this  faded  form  again? 
My  eyes  are  dim,  and  on  my  sunken 
cheek 
Hot,  bitter  tears  for  thee,  shed  all  in  vain, 
Have  left  behind  a  deep,  unalterable  stain. 

Oh,  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  teach  my  heart 

To  cast  away  its  idol — to  forget 
What  thou  hast  been,  what  even  now  thou 
art: 
For  my  wild  thoughts  cling  fondly  round 
thee  yet. 


399 


CORINNE  TO   OSWALD. 

Oh,  would  to  God  that  we  had  never  met, 
Or  that  we  had  not  parted  !     My  sad  soul 

Feeds  on  its  disappointment  and  regret. 
Without  the  power  to  weaken  or  control 
The  tide  that  bears  it  on  to  life's  unchanging  goal. 

It  was  no  idle  fancy,  Hghdy  wrought, 

That  my  too  fervent  heart  bestowed  on  thee. 

No,  it  was  life's  best  treasure  fondly  sought, 
Erewhile,  by  gallant  men  on  bended  knee 
With  burning  words,  and  }'et  m}'  thoughts  were  free — 

Free  as  the  tuneful  birds  that  soar  to  Heaven, 
Free  as  the  waters  dancing  o'er  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  starlight  of  a  summer  even — 

Till  all  my  soul's  deep  truth  and  trust  to  thee  were  given. 


//. 


I  sighed  for  fame,  and  won  it :  but,  alas ! 

It  did  not  bring  my  life  the  blessing  sought. 
Like  some  bright  phantom  in  a  magic  glass, 

By  wizard  spells  and  incantations  wrought, 

It  came  and  faded  as  a  passing  thought. 
E'en  in  my  hours  of  triumph  and  of  pride, 

I  felt  that  such  a  dream  was  dearly  bought, 
And  from  the  pomp  and  glare  I  turned  aside, 
And  wildly,  vainly  wept  for  what  fate  still  denied. 

We  met.     I  did  not  hear  the  applause,  the  praise 
That  told  my  triumph  to  the  bending  skies ; 
400 


CORINNE  TO   OSWALD. 

I  stood  entranced,  enraptured  in  the  gaze, 
The  worship  beaming  from  thy  glorious  eyes. 
The  meed  of  song,  the  ghttering  laurel  prize. 

Till  then  a  gaud  of  little  worth  to  me. 

Save  as  an  empty,  lonely,  heart's  disguise, 

I  learned  to  value,  deeming  that  must  be  * 

A  treasure,  which  could  win  admiring  looks  from  thee. 

I  listened  to  thy  love,  and  day  by  day 

Thy  presence  wrought  a  witchery  in  my  brain. 
Till  one  by  one  my  old  dreams  passed  away, 

And  forms  of  beauty  wooed  my  thoughts  in  vain. 

I  took  no  note  of  river,  hill  nor  plain  ; 
I  heard  no  bird-song  in  the  summer  grove. 

No  music  in  the  fall  of  summer  rain  ; 
There  was  no  joy  in  life,  no  star  above. 
No  blossom  on  the  earth  for  me  without  thy  love. 

There  came  a  change  :  and  in  the  dear  old  bower. 
Where  our  fond  souls  had  mingled  man}-  a  day, 

We  met  again  to  spend  a  parting  hour. 
Unnoted  twilight  came  and  passed  away, 
And  still  we  lingered  there,  in  fond  delay. 

To  syllable  that  bitter  word,  farewell ! 

Sad  thoughts  and  wild  imaginings  held  sway. 

And  when  ''  God-bless  thee"  from  thy  pale  lips  fell. 

It  seemed  to  my  lone  heart  like  hope's  departing  knell. 

We  parted,  and  I  waited  for  thee  long ; 

The  Summer  died,  with  all  its  fair  young  flowers 

401  /;.26 


CORINNE  TO   OSWALD. 

And  pleasant  voices  ;  birds  forgot  the  song 

That  sweetly  charmed  away  the  rosy  hours ; 

Then  Autumn  mists  hung  round  the  mountain  towers, 
And  then  deep-sobbing  winds  and  wintry  rain 

Shook  down  the  russet  leaves  from  faded  bowers, 
And  gentle  Spring  came  back  to  hill  and  plam  ; 

But  still  I  waited,  watched  for  thy  return  in  vain. 

At  last  I  sought  thee  in  thy  fatherland. 

And  in  thine  ancient  halis  one  festive  night 

I  stood  disguised,  amidst  the  minstrel  band  ; 
A  hundred  lamps  sent  forth  their  mellow  light. 
Rare  jewels  gleamed,  and  red  wine  sparkled  bright, 

And  music  charmed  the  soul ;  but  my  heart  died, 
And  heavy  darkness  gathered  o'er  my  sight 

As  I  beheld  thy  face,  and  by  thy  side 

A  lady,  cold  and  proud.     O  God  !  she  was  thy  bride  ! 

Entranced  I  gazed,  without  the  power  to  break 

The  spell  that  bound  my  senses  to  the  scene. 
I  dreamed  a  dreadful  dream,  yet  could  not  wake 

To  comprehend  what  was  nor  what  had  been  ; 

1  only  knew  there  was  a  bar  between » 
My  life  and  thine,  forever ;  love's  strong  power, 

The  only  prop  on  which  my  soul  could  lean, 
Was  crushed  and  broken  in  that  fatal  hour. 
And   this   was   man's   reward   and    hapless    woman's 
dower ! 

That  hour  of  anguish  passed,  and  still  I  lived — 
Lived  on,  though  life's  vitality  had  flown. 
402 


CORINNE  TO   OSWALD. 

I  had  been  falsely,  cruelly  deceived, 

And  my  existence,  in  an  hour,  had  grown 
A  dreary  desolation,  all  bestrewn 

With  undistinguishable  hopes  and  fears. 
Amidst  the  wreck  I  stood  alone,  alone. 

Trying  to  pierce,  through  bitter,  blinding  tears, 

The  dull  cold  mist  that  hung  o'er  all  life's  future  years. 

IV. 

Repentent  now,  thou  hast  returned  to  ask 

Forgiveness,  and  I  weep  to  hear  it  said 
That  thou  art  ill.     Oh,  would  it  were  my  task       "^ 

To  move  beside  thy  couch  with  gentle  tread ; 

To  smooth  thy  pillow,  hold  thine  aching  head. 
And  whisper  lovmg  words  !     May  she  whose  right 

It  is  to  watch  and  tend  thee  in  my  stead. 
Deem  it  her  chiefest  glory  and  delight. 
To  make  thy  path  on  earth  all  beautiful  and  bright. 

But  w^e  shall  meet  once  more — once  more  to  part, 

Not  as  we  parted  in  the  sunny  past, 
W^hen  love  sung  syren  lays  to  either  heart. 

And  wizard  hope  a  soft  enchantment  cast 

O'er  all  the  future,  brightening  to  the  last 
Sweet  hour  of  life.     No,  Oswald,  thou  hast  given 

A  keener  sting  to  Death's  unpitying  blast. 
And  soon  this  trembling  heart,  all  wrecked  and  riven. 
Must  fail,  without  one  hope  of  meeting  thee  in  Heaven. 

Indianapolis,  September,  1852. 


403 


•^TpE-f^R^YE-fOF-fC^IiYIN-^FliETCPE]^,^ 


A   PIONEER. 


STAND,  O  friend,  where  they  laid  thee 
When  thy  warm,  true  heart  grew  chill, 

When  the  hand  that  wrought  so  bravely 
Forgot  to  obey  thy  will. 


j      I  speak,  but  thou  dost  not  answer; 
I  call,  but  thou  dost  not  come ; 
The  low  wind  sings  in  the  grasses, 
But  thine  eloquent  lips  are  dumb. 


And  is  this  all  ?  Was  the  spirit 
That  strove  for  many  a  year 

In  the  front  rank  of  life's  battle, 
Quenched  like  a  taper  here? 


404 


GRAVE  OF  CALVIN  FLETCHER. 

Is  there  nothing — no  hereafter? 

Is  the  lite  of  the  soul  so  small? 
Are  our  human  hopes  and  guerdons, 

In  the  years  of  earth-life,  all? 

Is  there  nothing  higher,  better. 
Where  a  clearer  light  shall  show 

The  full  intent  and  the  meaning 
Of  problems  unsolved  below? 

Was  a  soul  that  wrought  so  grandly, 
A  heart  so  faithful  and  true. 

Dispensed  to  the  winds  and  waters. 
While  so  much  remained  to  do? 

Nay,  nay  ;  by  the  ti-uth  of  Jesus, 

By  the  holy  lips  that  said : 
*'  He  that  in  me  believeth 

Shall  live  though  he  were  dead." 

Thou  art  not  here  ;  thou  art  risen 
Beyond  this  shadowy  shore. 

And  this  monumental  marble 
Marks  the  robe  thy  spirit  wore. 

Thou  wert  called  to  higher  labor, 
Called  a  grander  trust  to  fill. 

And  the  soul  that  never  faltered 
Is  doing  its  duty  still. 
405 


GRAVE  OF  CALVIN  FLETCHER. 

By  a  sight  beyond  the  human, 

By  a  sense  I  can  not  name, 
I  perceive  thee,  greater,  grander, 

Glorified,  and  yet  the  same. 

Drinking  from  unfailing  fountains 
That  supreme,  unlettered  lore. 

Which  flows,  without  beginning, 
Without  end,  forevermore. 

And  I  hope  ere  long  to  meet  thee, 
With  my  little  household  band. 

Where  the  Lord  wdll  teach  His  children 
What  they  failed  to  understand. 

Where  the  good,  the  true,  the  perfect, 
To  our  human  souls  denied. 

Shall  be  found  in  all  their  beauty, 
And  the  spirit  satisfied. 


Beech  Bank. 


->^tci|e-^ 


406 


jfC^IlIl  ••TPEv^0l£ll.5{£<^ 


)HO  is  ready  for  the  onset? 

Who,  with  helmet,  sword  and  shield. 
Will  go  forth  to  conqilfer  Error, 

On  life's  battlefield? 
Who  will  strike  at  Superstition, 

In  his  goblin-haunted  cell, 
And  unloose  the  myriad  victims 
Fettered  by  his  spell  ? 
Call  the  roll. 

Who  will  strive,  on  God  relying. 

With  unwavering  faith  and  hope, 
To  pull  down  the  gory  scaffold. 

And  the  gallows  rope? 
Who  will  break  the  yoke  of  bondage. 

And  unbar  the  prison  door, 
Saying  to  the  trembling  sinner, 

**  Go  and  sin  no  more?" 
Call  the  roll.       • 
407 


CALL  THE   ROLL. 

Who,  forgetting  self,  will  listen 

To  sweet  charity's  appeal  ? 
Who  will  labor  for  the  lowly 

With  untiring  zeal  ? 
Casting  bread  upon  the  waters, 

Not  for  human  praise. 
Trusting  Heaven  again  to  find  it, 

After  many  days? 
Call  the  roll. 

Who  will  put  what  God  has  given 

To  the  wisest,  noblest  use  ? 
Who  will  clothe  the  homeless  orphan, 

Fill  the^vidow's  ciaise,    . 
And,  like  him  of  old  Samaria, 

Help  the  stranger  in  his  need, 
Reckless  of  his  name  and  nation, 

Reckless  of  his  creed? 
Call  the  roll. 

Who,  when  slander's  tongue  is  busy 

With  an  absent  neighbor's  name. 
Will  excuse  his  faults  and  failings, 

And  defend  his  fame? 
Who  will  view  poor  human  nature 

Only  on  the  brightest  side, 
Leaving  God  to  judge  the  evil 

Charity  would  hide? 
Call  the  roll. 

Indianapolis,  1851. 

408 


^-  -^-^-^.^A^-^ 


'^Wm^JAu^B^mK^^ 


j^ir^ 


jY  feet  were  planted  on  his  path ; 

The  fever's  fire  was  on  my  brow ; 
My  blood  was  seething  in  its  wTath ; 

I  knew  no  more,  nor  do  I  now 
Remember  how  the  deed  was  done. 

A  shriek  aroused  me  from  my  trance ; 
My  pulses  trembled,  one  by  one ; 

But  such  a  scene  as  met  my  glance ! 

O  God  I  there — there  !  I  see  it  yet ! 
Would  that  I  could  one  hour  forget 
That  marble  brow,  that  eye's  fixed  stare, 
Those  matted  locks  of  raven  hair. 
That  crimson  vest,  that  gory  knife, 
And  her,  his  beautiful  young  wife, 
In  tearless,  hopeless,  mute  despair, 
Kneeling  like  some  pale  statue  there  ! 
My  hand  had  made  the  wreck,  and  I 
Beheld  it  all  and  did  not  die. 
409 


THE   MURDERER. 

'Tis  long  since  then,  and  I  have  roved 

Far  from  the  valley  of  my  birth, 
Alone,  forsaken  and  unloved, 

A  blot  upon  the  broad,  bright  earth. 
And  still  the  spell  that  bound  my  sight 
To  the  wild  horrors  of  that  night, 
Remains  unbroken,  and  that  scream — 
The  wise  may  call  it  fancy's  dream ; 
I  reck  not,  for  it  was  to  me 
A  deep,  a  dread  reality. 
I  heard  it  at  a  certain  hour 
In  lighted  hall  and  lonely  bower ; 
I  heard  it  on  the  sea  at  night ; 
I  heard  it  in  the  noontide  light ; 
In  sun  or  storm,  in  calm  or  gale, 
I  heard  that  woman's  hopeless  wail. 


If  agony  and  burning  tears, 
And  deep  remorse  for  long,  long  years, 
Could  make  accusing  conscience  cease, 
1  might  have  known  the  balm  of  peace ; 
But  neither  grief,  remorse  nor  time 
Can  bring  oblivion  of  my  crime. 
No,  no  ;  the  black,  condemning  scroll 
Is  writ  in  fire  upon  my  soul. 
Oh,  I  have  striven  to  wander  back 
In  fancy  o'er  life's  faded  track, 
To  the  bright,  blessrd  days  of  youth 
With  all  their  innocence  .iiul  triitli  I 
But  all  ill  vain  ;  for  first  and  last, 
410 


THE   MURDERER. 

Amidst  the  chaos  of  the  past, 
My  memory  only  deigned  to  trace 
That  stiffening  form  and  palHd  face. 
Upon  the  sea  and  ou  the  land 
I  saw  the  blood  upon  my  hand, 
And  felt — ay,  and  I  feel  it  now, 
The  mark  of  Cain  upon  my  brow. 

All  that  the  human  heart  can  bear 
Of  grief,  of  anguish  and  despair — 
All  that  can  sear  and  scathe  and  blight, 
And  wrap  the  soul  in  rayless  night, 
My  soul  has  felt  and  still  must  feel. 
Till  death  shall  set  the  final  seal 
Upon  the  record  of  a  life 
Of  crime,  and  wretchedness,  and  strife. 


Indianapolis,  Jlly  29, 


411 


^^  rVl^I0N 


my  sleep  I  had  a  vision 

Of  a  brighter  world  than  this ; 
Of  a  realm  whose  vales  Elysian 

Wooed  the  soul  to  endless  bliss. 
Hope  could  sing  of  nothing  fairer 

Than  this  soft,  bewitching  isle ; 
Fancy  dreamed  of  nothing  rarer, 

And  she  furled  her  wings  awhile. 

It  had  cr^'stal  streams  and  fountains, 

Glens  and  grottos,  cool  and  deep. 
Where  the  shadows  of  the  mountains 

Lay  on  violets,  asleep  : 
Bright-winged  birds,  in  fairy  bowers, 

Carolled  love-songs  wild  and  sweet, 
While  the  odorous  orange  flowers 

Fell  like  snow-drifts  at  our  feet. 
412 


A  VISION. 

Glad  waves  sung  through  golden  gleam,  and 

Perfumed  winds  went  singing  by ; 
And  in  that  delicious  dreamland 

There  were  only  thou  and  I — 
Thou  and  I  together  straying 

Through  each  shady  glen  and  grove ; 
Two  enraptured  souls  a-Maying 

In  the  paradise  of  love. 

Then  our  hearts  forgot  the  sorrow, 

Toil  and  care  of  b^-gone  years, 
And  the  prospect  of  the  morrow 

Brought  us  neither  doubts  nor  fears. 
Joy,  that  would  not  brodk  concealing, 

From  thine  eyes  like  sunlight  stole  ; 
And  the  iris-wreath  of  feeling 

Was  the  cestus  of  my  soul. 

Words  of  love,  though  wild  and  burning, 

Seemed  but  trite  and  feeble  things. 
And  I  learned  thy  fond  heart's  yearning 

By  the  trembling  of  its  strings. 
Never  can  our  waking  senses 

Such  ecstatic  joy  receive. 
For  an  hour  like  this  condenses 

All  the  pleasure  life  can  give. 


January,  1850. 


413 


'^-^'■ 


^'FpE^JlI63F}^ER^IN♦^li^W/ 


a  year  long  gone  by,  with  its  blessing  and 
ban, 

There  lived  in  a  city  a  model  young  man. 

Who  tenderly  wooed  and  bewitchingl}- 
smiled, 

Till  he  won  the  warm  heart  of  an  only  child  ; 

And  a  well-to-do  widow,  named  Mrs.  Ker- 
shaw, 

Was  cast  for  the  role  of  his  mother-in-law. 

She  willingly  gave  him  her  daughter's  duv 

hand, 
And  with  it  a  deed  to  her  home,  house  and 

land, 
For,  **  Mother,"  he  said,  in  the  tenderest 

tone, 
**  You  never  could  live  in  that  great  house 

alone." 
Tlie  lady  assented,  and  little  foresaw 
The  risk  of  becoming  a  mother-in-law. 
414 


THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

So  he  sent  down  his  parcels  and  property  traps — 
A  trunk  and  a  hat-box,  a  boot-jack  and  wraps, 
Shirt  fronts  without  buttons,  socks  out  at  the  toes, 
Sorpe  eau  de  Cologne  and  pomatum  de  rose, 
To  the  cosy  old  homestead  where  Mrs.  Kershaw 
Was  to  figure  thereafter  as  mother-in-law. 

That  lady  soon  found  that  she  nothing  had  won, 
Save  the  onerous  task  of  supporting  a  son. 
Who  feasted  and  fared  like  a  king  in  his  hall, 
And  never  made  mention  of  money  at  all. 
But  welcomed  with  gusto  and  ready  guffaw, 
Sarcastical  flings  at  his  mother-in-law. 

She  paid  for  the  fuel,  and  settled  the  bills 

For  meat,  bread  and  butter,  for  powders  and  pills. 

She  made  and  she  mended  from  morning  ti'l  night, 

And  was  up  and  at  work  with  the  earliest  light. 

While  he  lay  a-dreaming  of  failure  or  flaw 

In  the  breakfast  prepared  by  his  mother-in-law. 

If  anything  vexed  him  at  home  or  away — 
The  tone  of  a  dun,  or  a  letter's  delay ; 
If  the  cakes  were  too  heav\',  the  cofTee  too  cold, 
The  steak  over-done,  or  the  eggs  over-old, 
This  lord  of  the  manor  would  jabber  and  jaw. 
And  blow  oft'  his  wrath  on  his  mother-in-law. 

If  babe  took  the  measles,  or  cook  took  a  huft'; 
If  clouds  threatened    rain,  or  the   east  winds   were 
rough  ; 


THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

If  tuneful  mosquitos  annoved  him  at  night ; 
If  his  hair  were  too  long,  his  trowsers  too  tight. 
Or  his  collar  too  broad  by  the  width  of  a  straw. 
He  snapped  like  a  shark  at  his  mother-in-law. 

Whenever  he  happened  to  stay  at  the  club 
Till  long  after  midnight  swung  over  its  hub, 
And  only  got  home  when  the  stars,  pale  and  wan. 
Were  fainting  away  in  the  light  of  the  dawn — 
If  his  wife  said  a  word,  he  declared  he  foresaw 
A  Caudle  prepared  by  his  mother-in-law. 

If  wife  chanced  to  find,  as  she  mended  his  coat, 
In  a  scented  envelope  a  rose-colored  note, 
Beginning,  ''M^-  Darling,''  and  ending,  ^'M}-  Sweet,'' 
That  he  chanced  to  pick  up  (O,  of  course)  in  the 

street. 
To  her  tremulous  questions  he  answered  *'  O  pshaw  !'' 
But  looked  daggers  and  guns  at  his  mother-in-law. 

When  some  one  declared  Mr.  Lo  an  old  shirk 
For  making  his  women  do  all  the  hard  work, 
He  thought  to  himself  he  would  willingly  wear 
A  scalp  at  his  waist  and  a  plume  in  his  hair, 
Would  sleep  on  a  bearskin,  eat  buffalo  raw. 
To  be  lord  for  awhile  of  his  mother-in-law. 

He  wished  in  his  heart — and  believed  it  no  crime— 
We  had  kept  to  the  rule  of  the  Puritan  time, 
416 


THE   MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

When  eveiy  old  woman,  grown  wrinkled  and  gray, 
Was  considered  a  witch  and  put  out  of  the  way  ; 
For  by  a  conclusion  so  easy  to  draw, 
He  could  quickly  get  rid  of  his  mother-in-law. 

The  lady  lived  on,  but  whenever  he  read 
A  notice  that  some  ancient  woman  was  dead, 
He  envied  the  mourners  her  exit  made  free. 
And  waited  and  wondered  how  long  it  w^ould  be 
Till  Death,  in  compassion,  w^ould  put  out  his  paw, 
And  finish  the  course  of  his  mother-in-law. 

Beech  Bank,  March,  1876. 


"~^, 


417  A-27 


($J^f!^^^^i:^.^ 


^l|*B^B¥*f]^ETOIE.3}«. 


TO    HER   PARENTS. 


T  is  more  than  a  year  since  you  missed  her, 
The  youngest,  the  fairest,  the  best ; 
Since  you  folded  her  small  hands  and  kissed 
her, 
And  laid  her  away  to  her  rest. 

Yet  often,  when  evening  is  closing. 
You  turn  with  the  old,  loving  care, 

To  the  litttle  ones  sweetly  reposing, 
Still  hoping  to  find  Nettie  there. 

But  Nettie,  so  daintily  molded, 
With  eyes  full  of  marvelous  light, 

Wee  hands,  like  twin  lilies  half  folded. 
And  little  feet  dimpled  and  white. 


418 


BABY  NETTIE. 

With  her  winsome  and  delicate  graces, 
The  darHng  pet  lamb  of  the  fold, 

Is  far  from  love's  tender  embraces, 
Alone  in  the  night  and  the  cold. 

Alone?     Nay,  aloft  with  the  angels, 
To  whom  life  eternal  is  given ; 

At  home  with  God's  blessed  evangels ; 
At  home  with  her  kindred  in  Heaven. 


They  lead  her  beside  the  bright  river, 

Through  groves  yielding  manna  and  balm  ; 

Where  the  white-robed  redeemed  sing  forever. 
Hallelujah  to  God  and  the  Lamb. 

And  there,  in  the  light  and  the  glory 
That  falls  from  the  cr^'stalline  throne, 

Thev  tell  her  the  wonderful  story 
Of  Jesus,  the  cn.icified  One. 

And  how  He  was  born  of  a  woman, 
A  child  full  of  wisdom  and  grace, 

A  man  very  God,  very  human. 
Who  died  to  redeem  a  lost  race. 

How  He  loved  little  ones,  and  caressed  them, 
While  here  on  this  earth  He  abode. 

And  said,  as  He  tenderly  blessed  them : 
"Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  God." 
419 


BABY   NETTIE. 

And  Nettie,  the  wee,  baby  daughter, 
That  left  you  a  few  months  ago, 

Through  lessons  the  angels  have  taught  her, 
Knows  more  than  the  wisest  below. 


Know^s  more  than  the  old  Grecian  sages, 
Who  plodded  and  toiled  from  their  youth. 

Through  Nature's  illustrated  pages. 
To  find  but  the  semblance  of  truth. 


Knows  more  than  the  humble  believer. 
Who  walks  by  the  light  God  has  given. 

Of  the  joy  that  increases  forever — 

Of  the  wonders  and  glories  of  Heaven. 

Then  grieve  not  that  Nettie  was  taken. 
Ere  sin  marred  her  soul  with  a  stain ; 

You  will  meet  her  again  w^hen  you  waken 
Beyond  earthly  sorrow  and  pain. 


Elm-Croft,  1871. 


-3|o|e^ 


420 


^^PR8FEg30R*^j!l®I^E.:^^* 


SIDST  thou  desire  to  die  and  be  at  rest — 

Thou  of  the  noble  soul  and  giant  mind? 
Hadst  thou  grown  weary  in  the  hopeless 
quest 
Of  blessedness  that  mortals  seldom  find? 
Had  care,  and  toil,  and  sorrow,  all  com- 
bined 
•    To  bring  that  sickness  of. the  soul  that 

mars 
The  happiness  that  God  for  men  designed. 
Till  thy  sad  spirit  spumed  its  prison  bars 
And  pined  to  soar  away  amidst  the  burn- 
ing stars? 

*  Professor  Morse  once  said  to  a  friend  "  Ten  years  ago  I 
would  gladly  have  availed  myself  of  any  divine  authorization  to 
terminate  a  life  of  which  the  possessor  was  weary."  There  is  a 
sermon  in  this  chance  remark,  as  the  world  would  have  lost  a 
priceless  discovery,  and  himself  fame  and  fortuie,  by  a  death 
thus  prematurely  self-chosen. 


421 


PROFESSOR   MORSE. 

Perchance  an  angel  sought  thee,  in  that  hour, 
A  blessed  angel  from  the  World  of  Light, 

Teaching  submission  to  Almighty  power, 

Whose  dealings  all  are  Equal,  Just  and  Right. 

Perchance  Hope  whispered  of  a  future,  bright 
And  glorious  in  its  triumph.     Soon  it  came. 

A  world  admiring  hailed  thee  with  delight. 

And  learning  joyed  to  trace  thy  deathless  name 
Upon  her  ponderous  tomes  in  characters  of  flame. 

Thou  brightest  meteor  of  a  starry  age. 

What   does   the   world   not   owe   thee?     Thou   hast 
wrought 
For  scientific  lore  a  glowing  page  ; 

Thy  mighty  energy  of  mind  has  brought 
To  man  a  wondrous  agent ;  it  has  taught 

The  viewless  lightning,  in  its  flight  sublime, 
To  bear  upon  its  wing  embodied  thought. 

Warm  from  its  birthplace,  to  the  farthest  clime, 

Annihilating  space  and  vanquishing  e'en  time. 

* 

Didst  thou  look  dov/n  into  the  shadowy  tomb 
And  crave  the  privilege  to  slumber  there, 

Unhonored  and  forgotten? — thou,  on  whom 

Kind  Heaven  bestowed  endowments  rich  and  rare? 

Was  life  a  burden  that  thou  couldst  not  bear? 
A  lesson  this  to  those  whose  souls  have  striven 

With  disappointment,  sorrow  and  despair. 
Until  they  feed  on  poison,  and  are  driven 
To  quench  the  vital  spark  that  Deity  hath  given. 
422 


PROFESSOR  MORSE. 

And  it  should  teach  our  restless  hearts  how  dim 

And  erring  is  our  finite  vision  here ; 
Should  make  us  trust  through  humble  faith  in  Him 

Who  sees  alike  the  distant  and  the  near. 
When  storm-clouds  gather  o'er  us,  dark  and  drear ; 

When  lightnings  flash  and  winds  are  wild  and  high, 
No  radiant  beam  of  sunshine  comes  to  cheer ; 

But  when  the  wrecking  tempest  has  gone  by, 

God  sets  the  blessed  bow  of  promise  in  the  sky. 

1849. 


423 


^'FHE♦^f!IIR7IcnE'^8E♦^]^^IN. 


ORN  dawns  on  old  Judea,  soft  and  fair ; 
;  There  is  a  holy  quiet  in  the  air ; 
The  storied  hills  and  valleys  are  as  brii^ht 
As  if  the  curse  of  sin  had  lel't  no  blight 
Upon  the  old  earth's  heart :  yet  there  is  pain 
And  weary  toil,  and  hopes  that  bloomed  in 

vain, 
And  darkened  homes,  where  lonely  Rachels 

keep 
Love's   vigil   by  their  dead,  and  wail  and 

\\eep 
Uncomforted.,    Even  now  a  funeral  train 
Winds  slowly,  sadly  thro'  the  gates  of  Nain. 
The  mourner  is  a  widow,  bowed  with  grief 
And  anguish  that  deny  the  poor  relief 
Of  bitter  tears.    With  slow,  uncertain  tread 
And  pallid  face  she  walks  behind  her  dead, 
Taking  no  interest  in  the  far  or  near. 
Since  there  is  nothing  left  to  lo\e  or  tear. 


424 


THE    MIRACLE   OF   NAIN. 

She  had  been  happ}-  once  ;  had  heard  the  mirth 
Of  joyous  children  round  her  humble  hearth. 
But,  ah  !  the  reaper  came  ;  his  shadow  fell 
Upon  the  little  band  she  loved  so  well, 
And  all  its  tender  ties  were  rent  apart. 
The  chosen  partner  of  her  life  and  heart 
Went  out  forever ;  then  the  children  fair. 
Whose  little  feet  made  sweetest  music  there, 
Faded  away,  till  only  one  was  left. 
O  how  her  heart,  so  broken,  so  bereft. 
Wound  its  torn  tendrils  round  that  onlv  child — 
Her  all,  her  beautiful,  her  undehled  ! 
He  was  for  her  the  solitar}'  beam 
Of  light  and  gladness  on  life's  troubled  stream. 

He  grew  in  strength  and  beauty,  through  the  hours 
That  passed  so  swiftly,  with  their  dreams  and  flowers, 
To  early  manhood  ;  his  old  mother's  hope. 
Her  stay,  support  and  staff'  adown  life's  slope. 
But  Death,  insatiate,  claimed  another  prey, 
And  he,  the  last,  the  loveliest,  passed  away. 
She  saw  the  fading  cheek,  the  parting  breath ; 
She  saw  the  fatal  sign  and  seal  of  Death  ; 
And  when  she  knew  his  loving  soul  was  gone 
Beyond  recall,  her  bleeding  heart  beat  on. 
She  folded  him  once  more  in  fond  embrace. 
Scanned  every  lineament  of  his  dear  face, 
Kissed  the  cold,  marble  brow,  the  pallid  cheek. 
And  icv  lips  that  had  no  word  to  speak. 
And  then,  went  forth  to  lay  his  fair,  young  head 
In  the  lone  cit}'  of  the  silent  dead. 
4-5 


THE   MIRACLE   OF  NAIN. 

But  who  is  He,  that  way-worn  traveler? 

Whence  came  the  man,  and  wherefore  is  he  here? 

His  garb  is  poor  and  humble,  but  His  face 

Is  full  of  wondrous  majest}^  and  grace. 

Why  do  the  bearers  of  the  dead  stand  still  ? 

What  are  the  w^ondrous  w^ords  that  seem  to  thrill 

The  heart-strings  of  the  hearers?     Is  that  breath 

That  stirs  that  pulseless  bosom  ?     Mighty  Death  ! 

The  Son  of  God  hath  spoken,  thou  hast  heard. 

And  given  up  thy  victim  at  His  word. 

And  now  the  life-tide  rushes,  free  and  warm. 

Through  every  vein  of  that  cold,  pallid  form. 

The  lip  is  tremulous,  the  brow  grows  bright, 

And  the  dim  eye  resumes  its  wonted  light. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  the  wild,  the  frantic  joy 

Of  that  fond  mother  o'er  her  living  boy ! 

And  is  the  hue  of  life  upon  his  cheek? 

And  can  he  see,  and  hear,  and  feel,  and  speak? 

Great  God !  in  human  form,  whose  mighty  power 
Called  back  the  spirit  in  that  triumph  hour. 
What  shall  we  say  when  Thou  shalt  come  again, 
With  twice  ten  thousand  angels  in  thy  train, 
To  shake  the  solid  earth,  to  rend  the  skies, 
And  bid  the  myriads  of  the  dead  arise  ? 

iNDlANAfOLIS. 


426 


o-^" 


-^WpE^EMgvJFKYvPeME.vIieVE?^ 


"  It  is  Home  where  e'er  the  Heart  Is." — Song. 


r?/7^   ^  -^-"^N 


{^HERE  is  thy  home,  love?     Where   bright 
'^■'^  skies  are  flinging 

Rich,  mellow  light  over  tropical  bowers, 
^Where  glad  birds  of  beautiful  plumage  are 
singing 
And     butterflies     wooing     the    odorous 
flowers : 
Where  the  soft  south  wind  strays, 

And  palm  leaves  quiver, 
Through  the  long  pleasant  days, 
By  some  bright  river — 
Is  thy  home  there? 


Where   is   thy  home,  love?.    Where   true 
men  are  braving 
Danger  and    death   on   the   red   battle- 
plain  ; 


427 


WHERE   IS   THY   HOME,   LOVE?        ♦ 

Where,  in  the  cannon's  smoke,  banners  are  waving, 
And  the  wild  war-horse  is  trampling  the  slain ; 
Where  the  dead  soldier  sleeps. 

Wrapped  in  his  glory  ; 
Where  the  cold  night-dew  steeps 
Faces  all  gory — 

Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home,  love?     Where  ivy  is  climbing 

Over  old  ruins,  all  moss-grown  and  gray ; 
Where  at  the  vesper  hour,  deep  bells  a-chiming. 
Summon  the  toil-weary  spirit  to  pray ; 
Where,  as  the  darkness  falls 

Over  the  gloaming, 
Through  the  dim  cloister  halls 
Pale  ghosts  are  roaming — 
Is  thy  home  there? 

Where  is  thy  home,  love  ?     Where  billows  are  swelling 

Over  the  caves  of  the  fathomless  deep  ; 
Where,  in  their  coral  bowers,  Nereids  are  knelling 
Dirges  where  beauty  and  chixalry  sleep ; 
Where  the  storm's  lurid  light, 

Fitfully  gleaming. 
Startles,  at  dead  of  night. 
Men  from  their  dreaming — 
Is  thy  home  there? 

No,  dearest  love,  no.     Where  kind  words  are  spoken 
In  a  wee  cottage,  half  hidden  by  flowers ; 
428 


WHERE   IS   THY   HOME,   LOVE? 

Where  the  dear  household  band  still  is  unbroken, 
Where  hope  and  happiness  wing  the  glad  hours ; 
From  the  cold  world  apart, 

Never  more  roving, 
In  my  adoring  heart, 
Faithful  and  loving — 
There  is  thy  home. 

Indianapolis,  April,  1850. 


429 


^ ^^  ^^^4^^^^^ 


^^^t\x\t\t\x\t 


titmnmM  ^ 


tTT'rTiT'i''r'r'tiiT'fi'tTT 


.g^^^A 


^:^ 


^  ^  ^  ^-^  "^  \$ir  V^ '^•^ 


^'FJ^E•fW^E(3K^6F♦^TpE♦^CE]\ITR^D♦^)?JIERIC^. 


HE  storm-fires  burn  with  a  lurid  glow 
In  the  sky  above,  in  the  sea  below, 
And   a   threatening   wdnd    with    deafening 

roar, 
Besieges  the  steamer  abaft  and  before. 
Her  tall  masts  bend  and  her  wet  shrouds 

ratde — 
God   make   the   good   ship   strong  for  the 

batUe ! 
She  is  freighted  with  gold  from  mountain 

mines ; 
But  all  the  red  gold  this  world  enshrines 
Is  worthless  compared  to  the  life  she  holds 
In  six  times  a  hundred  sentient  souls. 
The  lofty,  the  lowly,  the  brave  and  fair ; 
Fathers,    and    mothers,    and    children    are 

there. 
Mariners,  mariners !  watch  and  beware ! 

4.^0 


WRECK   OF   THE   CENTRAL  AMERICA. 

Ah,  listen  again 

To  the  wild  refrain 
Of  the  shrieking  wind  and  the  rattling  rain  ! 
How  the  huge  waves  raven,  grapple  and  roar ; 
How  they  hiss  and  writhe  behind  and  before. 
They  batter  the  keel  and  shake  the  strong  beams, 
Leap  over  the  bulwarks  and  gnaw  the  seams. 
While  the  steamer  dashes  their  crests  to  spray, 
And  tramples  them  down  on  her  homew^ard  way. 


//. 


But  what  saith  that  sailor,  hurried  and  pale? 

He  tells  the  captain  a  terrible  tale. 

For  he  starts,  and  his  brow  grows  dark  with  care. 

No  need  to  whisper  it — speak  it  out,  speak ! 

*'  Danger — aye,  peril  I  "     With  white  lip  and  cheek, 

Men  turn  to  each  other  and  murmur,  "A  leak  I" 

*'  To  the  pumps  I  to  the  pumps  !"     All  hope  lies  there  ; 

And  a  hundred  men,  with  heart  and  hand. 

Hasten  away  to  obey  the  command. 

The  bilge-water  gains,  but  the  good  pumps  play, 

And  the  strong  men  toil  through  the  livelong  day,' 

And  they  still  toil  on  through  the  grim,  wild  night, 

In  the  smoke  and  steam,  with  their  faces  white, 

While  the  storm-fires  burn  w^ith  a  lurid  glow , 

In  the  sky  above,  in  the  sea  below. 

Faster  and  faster  the  bilge-water  flows  ; 

Hotter  and  hotter  the  stifling  air  grows  : 

But  no  man  fails  in  the  terror  and  strife — 

They  battle  for  home,  for  loved  ones,  for  life. 


WRECK   OF  THE   CENTRAL  AMERICA. 

Bravely  they  battle, 

While  the  rent  shrouds  rattle, 
And  the  tall  masts  bend  in  the  wind  and  rain, 

And  the  angry  surges 

Chant  death  dirges 
Far  away  over  the  heaving  main. 


The  water  gains  surely,  higher  and  higher 
It  creeps  up  the  furnaces,  reaches  the  fire, 
And  simmering,  sobbing,  the  red  coals  expire. 
The  engines  are  silent,  but  brave  hearts  toil  on ; 
The  pumps  have  all  failed,  but  hope  is  not  gone. 
Foot  to  foot,  hand  to  hand,  weak,  haggard  and  pale, 
With  rope  girdled  buckets  and  barrels  they  bail . 
Bail,  bail  with  faint  hope  now,  but  breathe  not  a  fear. 
And  white  lips  still  tremble  with  words  of  good  cheer ; 
No  thought  of  exhaustion,  of  hunger  or  pain. 
Till  they  see  but  too  well  their  efforts  are  vain. 
The  water  still  rises,  sweeps  over  the  floors, 
Deluges  the  gangway,  leaps  in  at  the  doors ! 
The  men  fly  before  it,  fly  gasping  for  breath. 

While  the  black  waves  without 

Roar,  raven  and  shout, 

And  the  wind  and  the  rain 

Peal  a  fearful  refrain 

To  the  anthem  of  Death  I 
And  the  lost  ship  lies,  with  impotent  motion, 
A  life-freighted  wreck,  on  a  storm-mad  ocean. 

432 


WRECK   OF   THE   CENTRAL   AMERiCA. 


/v. 


O  visions  of  land,  with  its  old  green  hills, 
Its  sunny  valleys,  trees,  blossoms  and  rills — 
Of  home  far  away,  and  the  dear  ones  there  ; 
Ye  come  to  the  doomed,  in  their  deep  despair, 
Down  in  the  valley  and  shadow  of  Death, 
Counting  their  moments  with  tremulous  breath, 

And  waiting  to  die. 
Ye  come,  when  their  beautiful  hopes  are  dead, 
When  the  grave  is  3'avvning  beneath  their  tread ; 
When  they  turn  their  wild,  beseeching  eyes 
From  the  angry  sea  to  the  angry  skies. 
As  the  groaning  ship  is  sinking  under ; 

When  the  lightnings  flash. 

And  the  rent  spars  crash. 
And  the  waves  keep  time  to  the  ceaseless  thunder. 

Hearken  I  a  cr^' ! 
Louder  than  billows,  than  wind  and  rain, 
It  rings  like  a  joy-bell  over  the  main  : 
A  sail  I  a  saill — ho,  the  signal  I     She  nears. 
There  is  hope — there  is  hope,  thank  God !  and  tears 
Bathe  the  pallid  faces  of  noble  men 
And  women,  who  wept  not  through  all,  till  then. 
The  lifeboats  are  lowered,  through  blinding  spray, 
And  the  women  and  children  are  borne  away 
O'er  the  mountainous  billows,  weeping  sore, 
For  the  dear  ones  left :  the_y  ohall  meet  no  more. 
They  have  passed  the  danger  so  nobly  braved. 
And  reached  the  ship.     Thank  God,  they  are  saved  I 

433  ^5-28 


WRECK   OF  THE   CENTRAL  AMERICA. 


The  shadows  of  twilight  are  falHng  fast, 

The  wind  has  died  to  a  harmless  blast ; 

But,  alas  I  alas  I  for  the  sinking  wreck, 

And  the  brave  men  left  on  its  foam- washed  deck, 

Whose  wild  eyes  strain 

Through  the  storm,  in  vain, 
Por  the  life-boats,  the  life-boats,  that  come  not  again. 
O  pitiless  ocean  I  pitiless  sky  ! 
Is  there  no  help?     Must  they  die — all  die? 
Ay,  the  waves  answer,  with  deafening  roar, 
Grappling  like  demons  behind  and  before  ; 
And  the  wreck,  with  a  sudden  lurching  motion, 
Goes  down  to  the  soundless  deeps  of  ocean. 
To  the  gates  of  Death,  to  the  walls  of  Heaven, 
A  wild,  despairing  cry  is  driven. 
'The  waves  that  followed  the  lost  ship's  track 
Left  her  below  and  came  surging  back  ; 
And  the  storm-sprites  sung  a  requiem,  then, 
0*er  the  graves  of  four  times  a  hundred  men. 

Ceneva,  Switzerland,  November,  1857. 


43-1 


^  J)l0SEg' v]j^3T :  li00K :  0  YE  l^vTHE  vPmii3.< 


TO   AN   ARTIST. 


iHEN  the  day  is  dead,  dear  lady, 
^        And  the  glooms  of  twilight  fall, 
^    Oft  my  soul  goes  out  to  meet  thee. 
In  that  ancient  college  hall. 


Goes  out,  on  Fancy's  pinions, 

Through  the  boundless  world  of  thought, 
To  review  the  fair  creations 

That  thy  cunning  hand  has  wrought. 

And  enrapt  as  in  a  vision 

That  my  very  heart  pulse  thrills, 

I  behold  the  patriarch  "taking 
His  last  look  over  the  hills." 

Over  Canaan's  fruitful  valleys. 

Silver  sands  and  sparkling  streams, 

And  cities  girt  with  palm  trees. 
Fair  as  Eden  in  our  dreams. 
435 


MOSES  TAKING   HIS   LAST  LOOK. 

Over  all  the  land  God  promised, 
Man}'  a  hundred  years  before, 

To  Abram's  seed  outnumbering 
The  sands  on  the  ocean's  shore. 


O  man,  whom  God  appointed 
To  break  the  Egyptian  thrall, 

And  redeem  His  chosen  people, 
Hast  thou  found  the  end  of  all  ? 

Age  has  not  impaired  the  vigor 
Of  thy  mighty  heart  and  hand. 

But  thy  feet  may  never  enter 
To  possess  the  Promised  Land. 

Nay,  thy  pilgrimage  is  ended  ; 

Now  another  fills  thy  place  ; 
And  thy  soul  is  bowed  with  sadness, 

By  the  shadow  on  thy  face. 

And  standing  amidst  the  mountains, 

Unattended  and  forlorn, 
Thou  art  like  a  stricken  monarch 

Of  his  crown  and  kingdom  shorn. 

Alone !     Thou  art  not  forsaken, 
For  thy  God  is  still  thy  friend, 

And  thy  life  is  but  beginning 
Where  to  us  it  seems  to  end. 

436 


MOSES   TAKING   HIS   LAST   LOOK. 

And,  ere  Israel  takes  possession 
Of  Jehovah's  rich  bequest, 

Thou  shalt  know  the  full  fruition 
Of  eternal  love  and  rest. 


437 


^TpE-fli^]\[D4-0YER-fTPE^]^IYEI^. 


AM  going  a  lonely  journey,  to  a  country 

far  away, 
And   only  wait   for   a  summons  that  may 

arrive  to-day ; 
I  have  never  seen  that  country,  but  they  tell 

me  it  is  fair, 
And  most  of  my  friends  and  kindred  have 

long  been  living  there. 
Some   went   in    innocent   childhood,    some 

when  their  hair  was  gray ; 
Some  left  us  in  chill  December,  and  some 

in  flowtrx   Max  : 
Some    went    ere    their    little    fingers    had 

learned  to  toil  for  bread, 
And  some  when  their  hearts  weri'  broken, 

and  Hope  and  Joy  were  dead. 


438 


THE  LAND  OVER  THE  RIVER. 

I  have  waited,  wished  to  join  them,  for  many  a  weary 

year. 
But  whene'er  I  think  of  starting,  my  heart  grows  weak 

with  fear, 
I  am  sure  the  land  is  fairer  than  any  my  eyes  have  seen. 
But  dread  a  nameless  something   in    the  way  that  lies 

between  ; 
For  the  way  leads  through  a  valley  of  shadows,  cold  and 

From  the  sound  of  human  voices,  from  the  blessed  light 

of  day  ; 
Leads  over  a  lonely  river,  with  never  an  ebb  or  flow. 
Hung  round  with  ghostly  shadows  no  human  soul  may 

know. 
But  when  my  heart  is  weary  of  sorrow  and  suffering  sore, 
I  long  for  the  rest  and  blessing  of  that  dim  and  distant 

shore ; 
I  long  for  the  rest   and   blessing,  but   never,  quite,  can 

say  : 
*'My  work  is  all  completed  :  I  am  ready  to  go  to-day." 
I  shall  have  no  need  of  money,  nor  costly  clothes  to  wear ; 
My  raiment  is  provided,  and  a  friend  has  paid  my  fare. 
He  is  waiting  to  receive  me,  and  give  a  title  deed 
To  a  mansion  fair,  and  fitted  with  everything  I  need. 
There  is  no   more  death  nor  sickness,  nor  sorrow,   pain 

nor  care, 
In   that  land  beyond   the   river.     O,  would  that  I  were 

there  I 


439 


^^J)Il.SSTjlil7IRTp^^J|JcCMRE.3H. 


:'M  thinking  of  the  old,  bright  days, 
>^  ■  ^  "  When  we  were  girls  together, 

When  bloom  bedight  life's  common  ways 
And  Hope  made  pleasant  weather. 


Again,  within  the  country  school, 

I  con  old  Webster's  pages ; 
Anon,  Addition's  Simple  Rule 

My  earnest  thought  engages. 

Now  comes  the  noon  :  the  school  is  out — 
Two  hours  for  play  and  pleasure : 

With  blind-man's  buft,  ball,  ring  and  rout. 
We  emphasize  our  leisure. 

The  time  is  up  ;  I  hear  the  call. 

To  books  again  returning. 
We  range  around  the  rough  log  wall. 

And  gather  scraps  of  learning. 
440 


MISS    MARTHA   McCLURE. 

And  so  the  world  goes  round,  until 
The  school  for  night  suspended, 

I  ramble  down  Mount  Pleasant  Hill, 
Up  which  at  morn  I  wended. 


Just  as  the  sunset's  golden  sheen 
Falls  over  la  belle  river, 

And  crowns  the  city,  like  a  queen, 
In  beauty  throned  forever. 

All 


MISS   MARTHA  McCLURE. 

Ah,  Martha,  in  those  by-gone  days 
The  world  was  bright,  in  seeming. 

And  gayly  down  life's  morning  ways 
Our  glad  young  hearts  went  dreaming. 

We  scarcely  knew  the  name  of  care. 
Knew  less  of  pain  and  sorrow  ; 

Love  plucked  to-day  his  roses  fair, 
Hope  promised  more  to-morrow. 

But,  ah  !  the  Present  breaks  the  chann 
With  which  the  Past  had  bound  me, 

And  finds  me  living  on  a  farm, 
With  five  grandchildren  round  me. 

They  sing  and  play  the  same  old  plays 
We  sang  and  played  together, 

When  bloom  bedight  life's  common  ways 
And  Hope  made  pleasant  weather. 

Of  all  our  merry  schoolmates  then, 
Some  climbed  to  lofty  places, 

And  some  adorned  the  ways  of  men 
With  gentle  Christian  graces. 

But  many  a  one  of  those  gay  bands 
That  laughed  and  sang  in  chorus. 

With  silent  lips  and  folded  hands, 
Has  journeyed  on  before  us. 
442 


MISS    MARTHA   McCLURE. 

And  she*  who  had  us  in  her  care, 
Whose  word  was  law  and  duty  ; 

Who  sowed,  with  many  a  fervent  prayer, 
The  seeds  of  moral  beauty — 

Think  you  her  grandly-gifted  soul 
In  endless  silence  slumbers? 

Not  so  ;  in  life's  eternal  goal 
She  sings  sublimer  numbers. 

And,  ah  !  dear  school-mate,  you  and  I 
Have  fewer  miles  to  travel ; 

Have  fewer  lions  to  go  by, 
And  fewer  threads  to  ravel ; 

Have  fewer  years,  of  bright  or  dark, 

Of  peace  or  weary  trial, 
Until  the  day  that  will  not  mark 

Its  progress  on  Life's  dial ; 

Have  fewer  friends  to  love  and  leave, 
When  Death  remits  Life's  fever. 

And  fewer  hearts  to  moan  and  grieve, 
When  we  shall  cross  the  river. 

Beech  Bank,  September,  1878. 
'••Mrs.  Rebecca  Hammond  Lard. 


443 


^^0J\[E:]Vl6PT:I]M  ?I : IlIFETIJilE.-^^ 


HEY  were  all  alone,  two  brothers, 
By  a  feeble,  flickering  light, 
In  an  empty,  wayside  hovel, 
At  the  ghostly  hour  of  night. 


Two  soldiers,  and  one  was  dying 
In  his  blanket  on  the  floor, 

With  his  knapsack  for  a  pillow — 
His  knapsack  stained  with  gore. 

The  shadows  crept  to  the  hearthstone, 
And  hung  round  the  broken  wall : 

And  the  dying  man  kept  breathing — 
Kept  breathing,  and  that  was  all. 

<'An  incident  in  the  life  of  Major  W.  J.  Richards. 


444 


ONE   NIGHT   IN   A  LIFETIME. 


//. 

Nay,  his  hand  was  feebly  lifted, 
And  his  white  lips  whispered  low, 

*'I  am  watching,  watching,  brother, 
As  I  told  you  long  ago/' 

For,  in  dying,  he  remembered 

Once,  when  life  was  bright  and  sweet, 

He  had  said :     "I  will  watch  the  moment 
When  my  pulses  cease  to  beat. 

*'  I  will  watch  the  last  sensation 

By  the  power  of  human  will. 
When  the  shadow  falls  around  me 

And  my  human  heart  grows  still." 

A  bird  in  a  blasted  pine  tree 

Complained,  like  a  heart  that  grieves  ; 
The  wind  sighed  low  at  the  casement 

And  whispered  around  the  eaves. 

And  the  bright  young  life  kept  ebbing 
From  the  heart  so  tiiie  and  brave, 

And  the  feeble  breath  grew  fainter 
On  every  pulsing  wave. 

445 


ONE  NIGHT   IN  A   LIFETIME. 

But  again  the  white  lips  parted, 
And  mutely  seemed  to  say : 

''I  am  watching,  watching,  brother!" 
And  the  brave  soul  passed  away. 

He  had  met  the  silent  angel, 
And  together,  hand  in  hand, 

They  had  left  the  path  of  earth-life 
For  the  far-off  ''better  land." 

IV. 

The  night  without  grew  darker. 
The  light  within  burnt  low. 

And  the  heart  of  the  lonely  mourner 
Kept  time  to  his  weary  woe. 

As  there  in  the  awful  silence. 
Kneeling  by  that  lowly  bed. 

He  folded  the  cold  hands  fondly, 
And  kept  vigil  by  his  dead. 

He  had  stood  in  front  of  batde — 
He  had  seen  his  comrades  slain, 

Where  the  veiy  earth  was  drunken 
With  a  fall  of  crimson  rain ; 

Had  looked  on  the  pallid  faces 
Of  torn  and  mangled  men, 

But  the  hardest,  bitterest  tiial 
Of  life  was  reserved  till  then. 

Bbbch  Bank,  Fbhruaky,  1880. 

446 


^^6ENms^^]\iD-f%i£EN5^.3i^^ 


ENIUS  is  a  mighty  fountain 

Gushing  from  a  cloud-capt  mountain ; 
Talent  is  a  pleasant  rill 
Winding  round  a  sunny  hill. 

Genius  rushes  strong  and  wild 
Where  the  riven  rocks  are  piled ; 
Talent  wanders  through  a  vale, 
Listening  to  the  nightingale. 

Genius  hath  a  troubled  seeming, 
Like  a  fevered  brow  in  dreaming ; 
Talent  hath  a  face  so  fair, 
That  the  stars  are  mirrored  there. 


Genius  is  forever  pouring, 
Rushing,  foaming,  seething,  roaring ; 
Talent  sings  a  pleasing  lay. 
As  it  glides  along  its  way. 

.     447 


GENIUS   AND  TALENT. 

Genius  gathers  sparkling  gems, 
Fit  for  angel  diadems  ; 
Talent  gathers  dewy  flowers 
From  imagination's  bowers. 

Genius,  from  its  wild  endeavor, 
Stoppeth,  resteth,  never,  never ; 
Talent  loiters  oft  to  play 
With  the  rainbows  on  its  spray. 

Genius,  in  its  wild  commotion, 
Sweepeth  madly  to  the  ocean  ; 
Talent,  with  its  brow  so  mild. 
Meets  the  wanderer,  worn  and  wild, 
And  the  torrent  and  the  river 
Merge  and  mingle  there  forever. 


448 


^^♦f^CENE-MN-fl^EIi^J^D/ 


^ 


PUBLISHED  IN  THE   INDIANAPOLIS    SENTINEL,  JANUARY  27, 

1847. 


/. 


HE  wild  wind  shrieked  o'er  the  dreary  moor, 
And  sang  a  dirge  at  the  crazied  door 
Of  a  hovel,  bent  with  age  so  low, 
It  seemed  a  hillock  of  drifted  snow. 

Within  that  hut,  by  the  cheerless  hearth, 
That  once  was  gladdened  with  children's 

mirth, 
A  desolate  mother  sat  and  prest 
A  famished  babe  to  her  faded  breast. 

With  her  evening  song,  so  low  and  deep. 
She  had  lulled  her  starving  boys  to  sleep. 
Did  they  wander  now,  in  happy  dreams. 
By  the  flowery  banks  of  purling  streams? 


449 


b-1^ 


A  SCENE   IN   IRELAND. 

Did  they  watch  the  golden  fishes  pla}'? 

Mimic  the  notes  of  the  bright  birds  lay, 

Or  clamber  up  to  the  sunny  bough, 

Where  the  ripened  fruit  seemed  bending  now  ? 


No,  no  ;  their  visions  were  all  unblest, 
For  they  tost  and  groaned  in  sad  unrest ; 
And  now  there  came  from  that  lowly  bed 
The  muttered  words  of  a  prayer  for  bread. 


Why  did  that  mother  so  wildly  start, 
And  press  her  babe  on  her  aching  heart? 
That  pleading  sound,  that  whispered  word, 
The  inmost  depths  of  her  soul  had  stirred. 

A  moment  passed,  and  her  eyes,  so  wild. 
Were  fixed  again  on  her  dying  child. 
Softly  she  parted  its  golden  hair. 
And  pressed  a  kiss  on  its  brow  so  fair. 

Fondly  she  gazed  in  the  deep-blue  eye, 
That  seemed  too  bright,  too  young  to  die ; 
Gently  the  cheeks  grew  pale  and  chill — 
She  felt  its  heart,  but  each  pulse  was  still. 

And  she  knew  the  soul  that  God  had  given 
Had  passed  away  to  its  rest  in  Heaven. 

450 


A   SCENE   IN   IRELAND, 


//. 


Softly  and  brightly  the  sun's  glad  beam 
Came  o'er  the  hill  and  the  ice-bound  stream, 
And  the  morning's  frosty  breath  was  rife 
With  the  stirring  sounds  of  busy  life. 


The  snow,  as  fair  on  the  dreary  moor 

As  it  came  from  Heaven  the  night  before, 

Was  broken  now  by  the  father's  tread, 

As  he  wended  home  with  his  hard-earned  bread. 


He  had  labored  well,  had  labored  long, 
But  his  soul  was  brave,  his  arm  was  strong ; 
His  heart  was  cheered  by  the  blessed  thought 
Of  the  loved  at  home,  for  whom  he  wrought. 


Wearily,  slowly,  trudged  he  along, 
Singing  the  tune  of  a  wild  old  song. 
But  pondering  deep  in  his  heart  the  while, 
His  children's  joy  and  his  wife's  glad  smile. 


As  the  hearth  was  swept,  the  table  spread. 
And  the  platter  filled  with  precious  bread. 
He  saw  in  fancy  the  turf-fires's  flame. 
He  heard  his  prattler  lisp  his  name, 

451 


A   SCENE   IN   IRELAND. 

And  dreamed  of  joy  till  his  heart  forgot 
The  toils  and  cares  of  the  poor  man's  lot. 
Slowly  he  wended  around  the  hill ; 
He  stood  by  the  door,  but  all  was  still. 


He  raised  the  latchet  and  gazed  around  ; 
'Twas  surely  strange  that  they  slept  so  sound ! 
There  sat  his  wife,  with  her  baby  prest 
In  quiet  sleep  on  her  faded  breast. 


He  spoke  ;  she  moved  not.     He  raised  her  head ; 
She  was  cold  and  pale — his  wife  was  dead. 
He  did  not  speak,  or  move,  or  start ; 
Life's  tide  was  frozen  around  his  heart. 


His  brow  grew  dark  with  his  soul's  despair : 
Light,  hope,  love,  joy — all  had  perished  there. 
His  boys  were  locked  in  a  fond  embrace ; 
But  well  he  knew  by  each  pallid  face, 
So  quiet  now,  that  the  soul  had  flown. 
God  !  oh,  God  !  he  was  all  alone. 


Daughters  of  Freedom,  to  you  I  bring 
A  sad  appeal  for  the  perishing. 
Our  kindred,  neighbors  and  friends  are  they 
Who  are  suffering  thus,  though  far  away. 

452 


A  SCENE   IN   IRELAND. 

Perchance  the  price  of  the  gem  you  wear 
In  your  shining  braids  of  silken  hair, 
Might  Hfe,  health,  strength  and  joy  impart 
To  a  trembling  sister's  bleeding  heart. 

The  blessed  gift  ye  might  soon  forget, 
But  the  Lord  of  all  will  pay  the  debt. 


453 


n  r-i  r-i  f-'i  r-i  vfi  rr^  r.i  r.-i  r.-i  ii  r.i  r-i  r.i  r-i  i-\  13  f.i  t-i  t-i  t-i  t-i  t-i  li  t-i  i  ,i  r-i  i-i  f ji  t-i  f-i  li  r.^  t.-i  m  1.7  r.i  ti  r.^  r?;  li 


^^'F6-f][lIy-fW^;^YEIiING-f^PGES.3l^^ 


E  have  joumied,  old  companions,  in  the  storm 
^'^  and  in  the  sun, 

i   Many  a  weary  way  together  since  our  part- 
nership begun. 
Ye  were  good  and  faithful  servants,  but  no 

longer  fresh  and  fair ; 
Time    has    marred    your    sheeny    beauty, 
dainty  shape  and  jaunty  air. 
l(i\  "^     But,  as   some   disabled  soldier  is  beguiled 
from  pang  and  pain 
By  the  sight  of  his  good  weapon,  battered 

by  the  iron  rain, 
Ye  wile  me  from  the  present,  with  its  care 

and  trouble  sore, 
To  the  pleasures,  pains  and  perils  of  the 

days  that  come  no  more. 
We  have  crossed  the  sea  together,  paced  the 
steamer's  reeking  deck, 


454 


TO   MY  TRAVELING   SHOES.      . 

When   the   heavens   brooded   darkness,    the   storm-wind 

threatened  wreck ; 
Nestled  in  our  httle  cabin,  with  its  light  so  cold  and  dim, 
Haunted  by  weird  shapes  and  shadows,  like  sea  serpents 

green  and  grim  ; 
Where  the  huge  waves  struck  the  bull's  eye,  and  went 

how^ling  on  their  way. 
Like  a  troop  of  hungry  demons  disappointed  of  their  prey. 
O,  that  little  whited  cabin  I  how  it  rolHcked  and  careened, 
While  its  mirror  scintillated  like  the  one  eye  of  a  fiend. 
And  its  life-preservers,  dangling  from  the  ceiling  to  and 

fro, 
Whispered  horrible  suggestions  to  the  home-sick  wretch 

below. 
O,  that  odorous  litde  cabin  I  with  its  hard,  uneasy  bed. 
Where  I  always  wakened  wondering  if  I  w^ere  alive  or 

dead. 
Till   I  saw  familiar  garments  strewn  on  sofa-back  and 

stand. 
That  reminded  me,  thank  Heaven,  of  the  dry  and  sohd 

land. 
But  when  we  were  just  as  wretched  as  poor  human  souls 

can  be. 
We  sighted  dear  old  Cherburg,  quiet  Cherburg,  by  the 

sea. 
And  that  night,  in  hoods  and  blankets,  like  five  phantoms 

in  a  row. 
We  crept  down  the  slippery  gangway  to  the  little  tug 

below, 
That  looked,  amidst  the  blackness  around,  above,  beneath, 

455 


.     TO   MY  TRAVELING   SHOES. 

Like  the  fabled  boat  of  Charon  on  the  fabled  stream  of 

Death. 
Our  goodly  ship  had  anchored  full  five  weary  miles  from 

land, 
Where  we  could  not  see  each  other,  could  not  see  a  lifted 

hand. 
For  the  sky  was  black  above  us  and  the  sea  was  black 

below. 
And  the  tug-boat,  like  a  bubble  on  the  waves,  tossed  to 

and  fro. 
And  we  heard  the  howling  billows,  felt  the  pattering  of 

the  rain. 
As  we  sat  there  in  our  misery,  too  much    frightened  to 

complain. 
Nevertheless,  it  bore  us  safely  through  the  plashing  rain 

and  spray, 
From  the  midnight  on  the  ocean  to  the  midnight  on  the 

quay, 
Where,  worn,  and  wet,  and  weary,  in  the  darkness  and 

the  rain. 
Every  heart  and  limb  a-shiver  with  anxiety  and  pain. 
We  were  held  as  hapless  fellows  for  some  high  offense 

enthralled, 
Till  our  passports  were  examined  and  our  baggage  over- 
hauled. 
Thence  we  wandered  on,  good  bottines,  over  many  a  for- 
eign shore, 
Famous  in  historic  story,  rich  in  scientific  lore, 
And  immortal   foims  of  beaut/,  precious,  priceless  and 

sublime. 


TO   MY   TRAVELING   SHOES. 

That  the  Heaven-inspired  creators  left  along  the  paths  of 

time. 
We  have  wandered  far  together,  through  the  shadow  and 

the  sun ; 
But  we  are  a  decade  older,  and  our  journeying  is  done. 
Yet  my  memory  holds  her  treasures,  and  recounts  them  at 

her  will. 
And  my  fancy,  never  weary,  goes  on  man}-  a  ramble  still ; 
Goes  to  palace  parks  and  gardens,  rich  with  odoriferous 

blooms ; 
To   grand,  antique   cathedrals,    dim   with   many-colored" 

glooms  ; 
Threads  the  high  halls  of  the  Louvre,  with  their  treasures 

of  old  days ; 
Reads  the  littleness  of  greatness  on  the  graves  of  Pere 

la  Chaise ; 
Loiters  in  Place  de  la  Concord,  where  the  guillotine  once 

stood, 
Sending  forth  a  fearful  river  of  hot  tears    and   human 

blood. 
Then  she  flits  to  lovely  Rhineland,  with  its  purple-laden 

vines. 
Its  hoary  feudal  i*uins,  and  its  holy  pilgrim  shrines ; 
And  she  sails  a-down  the  Neckar,  when  the  summer  sun- 
shine, low. 
Gives  to  Heidelberg  and  Kaiserstuhl  a  tender,  rosy  glow ; 
Threads  the   castle,  now  a   ruin,   but  of  old   as   fair  and 

grand 
As  befitted  the  proud  Palatine  that  ruled  the  Teuton  land ; 
She   refills   the   stately  chambers,    lonely,    desolate    and 

bare,  ^^^ 


TO   MY  TRAVELING   SHOES. 

With  the  rich  and  royal  company  that  whilom  gathered 

there. 
Then  she  threads  the  park  at  Wimar,  with  its  sunshine  and 

its  bloom  ; 
Steals  into  Goethe  "  Garten-haus,"  and  lingers  Vound  his 

tomb  ; 
Or,  in  Schiller's  ''Arbeit  zimmer,"  with  all   holy  memories 

fraught, 
Reads   the   legends   on   the   tapestry   that   royal    fingers 

wrought 
In  honor  of  the  truest  heart,  the  soul  of  purest  fire, 
That  ever  dwelt  in  human  guise  or  swept  the  poet's  lyre. 
Then  she  strays  beside  the  Tiber,  climbs  St.  Peter's  lofty 

dome, 
And  muses  in  the  Vatican,  art's  treasure-house,  at  Rome  ; 
Loiters  round  the  ancient  Forum,  scales  the  Coliseum's 

wall. 
Where  the  many-colored  lichens,  like  bright  banners,  float 

and  fall, 
When  the  full  moon,  high  in  Heaven,  drifts  her  silver  o'er 

the  floor. 
Where  gladiators  batded  dll  the  ground  was  dank  with 

gore, 
And  a  multitude  of  Chrisdans  sealed  with  blood  their  faith 

in  God, 
While  an  Emperor  applauded,  and  the  world  obeyed  his 

nod. 
Then  she  flits  beyond  the  city,  with  its  noises  and  its  frets, 
Where  the  tuneful  heart  of  Shelley  lies,  beneath  the  vio- 
lets, 
And  the  litde  marble  monument  from  age  to  age  repeats 

458 


TO   MY  TRAVELING   SHOES. 

The   last,    despairing    utterance    of    the    broken-hearted 

Keats. 
Thus,  at  home,  beside  the  hearthstone,  in  my  indolence 

serene, 
I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  see  again  the  places  I  have  seen ; 
Can  forget  the  wear  and  worry,  cares  and  trials  of  the 

day, 
And  without  the  toil  of  going,  live  in  countries  far  away. 

Beech  Bank,  1877. 


^•J^ 


459 


TO    the:    IIIH9IORV    OP 


ON   THE    ARRIVAL    OF    HIS    REMAINS    AT   INDIANAPOLIS. 


E  comes  !     But  not  as  once  he  came, 

With  beaming  eye  and  brow, 
With  waving  banners,  loud  acclaim, 

Cometh  the  gifted  now. 
With  sable  plumes  and  funeral  train. 

With  slow  and  solemn  tread. 
They  bear  him  to  his  home  again, 

Our  noble  Howard — dead ! 

Toll,  toll  for  him  the  mournful  knell, 

Ye  thousands  who  have  hung 
Upon  the  thrilling  words  that  fell 

From  his  entrancing  tongue. 
Bring  flowers,  bedewed  by  many  a  tear, 

Wreathed  with  the  cypress  bough, 
And  lay  them  on  the  lowly  bier 

Where  Howard  slumbers  now. 
460 


GENERAL   HOWARD. 

And  ye  who  sat  around  his  hearth, 

Where  love's  warm  pulses  beat 
In  joy  and  sorrow,  care  and  mirth, 

And  is  it  thus  ye  meet? 
Ye  have  not  seen  his  pleasant  face, 

His  manlv  form,  for  years  ;  • 
He  comes — instead  of  love's  embrace, 

Ye  greet  him  wuth  your  tears. 

How  shall  the  minstrel  sing  of  him? 

How  tell  his  peerless  w^orth? 
She  can  but  say  :     A  star  is  dim, 

A  light  has  passed  from  earth. 
The  odor  of  a  flower  is  spent. 

Lost  is  a  music  strain  ; 
A  tender,  holy  link  is  rent 

In  fond  affection's  chain. 

But,  by  the  voice  of  w^ell-earned  fame. 

By  bitter  tears  that  start. 
We  know  ''our  Howard's"  honored  name 

Lives  in  his  country's  heart. 
And  by  the  truthful  words  he  said. 

The  good  seed  he  has  sown 
Will  grow^  and  bloom,  though  he  is  dead. 

Round  Freedom's  cornerstone. 

His  country,  faithful  to  her  trust. 
Hath  sought  him  where  he  fell, 
461 


GENERAL   HOWARD. 

To  hoard  the  angel-guarded  dust, 

or  one  she  loved  so  well. 
And  when  the  Present,  old  and  gray, 

Shall  be  a  by-gone  age, 
His  name  shall  shine  with  purest  ray 

Upon  historic  page. 


462 


HI  ii  O  O  V  o. 

€t  ^  Qi  ^  :^  M 


^^  WHY--5^@  >THE^' BHT^IiEvGE  vIlIEE/ 


WAY  to  the  battle  of  life,  my  boy, 
While  yet  it  is  called  to-day, 
For  the  years  go  out  and  the  years  come  in, 
Resrardless  of  all  who  mav  lose  or  win. 
Of  all  who  may  work  or  play. 

And  the  troops  march  steadily  on,  my  boy. 

To  the  myriads  gone  before  ; 
You  can  hear  the  sound  of  their  falling  feet. 
Going  down  to  the  river  where  two  world's 
meet — 
They  go  to  return  no  more. 


There  is  room  for  you  in  the  ranks,  my  boy. 

And  duty  to  you  assigned  ; 
Step  into  the  front  with  a  cheerful  grace — 
Be  quick,  or  another  may  take  your  place, 

And  you  shall  be  left  behind. 
463 


AWAY   TO   THE   BATTLE   OF   LIFE. 

There  is  work  for  you  by  the  way,  my  boy, 

That  you  never  can  do  again  ; 
Work  for  the  lowliest,  loftiest  men. 
With  shuttle  and  spindle,  ploughshare  and  pen ; 
Work  for  the  hand  and  the  brain. 

The  serpent  will  follow  you  close,  my  boy, 

To  lay  for  your  feet  a  snare, 
And  Pleasure  will  sit  in  her  fairy  bowers, 
With  crimson  poppies  and  lotus  flowers 

Enwreathing  her  golden  hair. 

But,  oh  !  beware  of  her  wiles,  my  boy, 

Beware  of  her  Upas  breath  ; 
She  has  learned  the  lore  of  deception  well ; 
But  her  steps  take  hold  on  the  gates  of  hell — 

The  kiss  of  her  lips  is  death. 

Then  put  on  the  armor  of  God,  m}^  boy, 

In  the  beaudful  days  of  youth ; 
Put  on  the  helmet,  the  breastplate  and  shield. 
And  the  sword  that  the  feeblest  arm  may  wield, 
In  the  cause  of  right  and  tmth. 

And  go  to  the  batde  of  Life,  my  boy. 

With  the  peace  of  the  Gospel  shod, 
And  before  high  Heaven  do  the  best  you  can 
For  the  great  reward,  for  the  good  of  man. 
For  the  crown  aiul  kingdom  of  God. 

ELM-CRorr,  November,  1869. 

464 


a  NT     i_^    J     --   '.  ^-- 


^^T.^P.^BawDEg.^ic- 


•^ — ^■ 


^1  _  _ 


AREWELL,  O  friend  of  other,  brighter  days  ! 
S,  My  heart  is  lorn  and  sore 

H  To  think  that  I  shall  meet  on  life's  highways 
Thy  pleasant  face  no  more. 

I  can  not  realize  that  some  fell  blight 
Has  fallen  on  thee  so  soon  ; 
\       That  some  grim  shadow  from  the  shores  of 
night 
Has  darkened  all  thy  noon. 

I  can  not  realize  that  thou  hast  learned 
The  secret  Heaven  conceals  ; 

That  thy  unfettered  spirit  has  discerned 
What  only  death  reveals. 

Not  many  days  ago  we  met,  and  said 
Kind  greetings  as  we  past ; 

465  ^-30 


T.   H.   BOWLES. 

But,  ah  I  I  dreamed  not,  as  their  accents  sped, 
Those  words  would  be  our  last. 


//. 

We  look  on  thy  pale  brow  and  silent  lips, 

We  feel  thy  pulseless  heart. 
Behold  thy  sealed  eyes  in  dark  eclipse, 

And  wonder  where  thou  art. 

Not  here  ;  nay,  in  the  world  of  living  men. 
That  breathe,  and  feel,  and  move, 

Thou  may'st  be  nevermore  as  thou  hast  been. 
Alas,  for  life  and  love  I 

When  I  recall  the  promise  of  thy  prime, 

Thine  aspirations  high, 
I  weep  and  say,  alas,  it  was  not  time — 

But  God,  He  knoweth  why. 

He  comprehends  the  darkness  that  surrounds 

Our  feeble  human  sight ; 
He  understands  the  mystery  that  confounds 

Our  sense  of  wrong  and  right. 

Farewell,  O  friend  of  other,  brighter  years! 

My  heart  for  thee  is  sore  ; 
I  can  but  give  the  tribute  of  my  tears — 

Would  I  could  give  thee  more. 
466 


T.    H.    BOWLES. 

Would  I  could  well  portray  thy  genial  heart, 
Warm,  tender,  generous,  just; 

Thy  soul,  that  scorned  dissimulation's  art, 
Faithful  to  everv  trust. 


Many  will  miss  thee,  as  their  tears  attest. 

And  mourn  thy  friendship  lost. 
And  those  that  knew  thee  longest,  knew  thee  best, 

Will  miss  and  mourn  thee  most. 

But  in  the  pleasant  home  where  death  has  riven 

The  holiest  ties  apart. 
Not  all  the  pitying  souls  in  earth  or  Heaven 

Can  heal  love's  bleeding  heart. 

Beech  Bank,  September  23,  1878. 


467 


^^♦f^lREE^^-f^RTiB'^-^PR^YER. 


WO  waifs  upon  the  stream  of  time, 

Outcasts,  without  a  home  or  name, 
Born  in  the  haunts  of  sin  and  crime, 
))     Heirs  to, a  heritage  of  shame  ; 
Two  w^andering  Arabs  of  the  street, 
With  tattered  clothes  and  bare,  brown  feet. 

One,  crushed  and  mangled  till  the  life 
Was  slowly  ebbing  from  his  heart ; 

The  other,  racked  with  fever's  strife. 
Beyond  the  healing  power  of  art. 

Their  pallid  faces  nesded  there, 

Framed  in  a  mass  of  tawny  hair. 


One  murmured,  with  a  plaintive  sigh 
**  Say,  Bobby,  did  you  ever  hear 

468 


A   STREET   ARABS    PRAYER. 

Of  Tesus?     Mavbe  when  vou  die 

He'll  come  and  take  you  up  from  here 
To  Heaven,  and  there  you  wont  be  poor, 
Nor  cold,  nor  hungry  any  more. 


*'At  mission  school  I  heard  'em  say 

He  goes  about  a-doing  good, 
And  if  you'd  ask  Him,  night  or  day, 

He"d  come  and  help  you  all  He  could. 
Who  knows  but  He'll  come  round  to-night— 
And  you  would  know  Him,  Bob,  at  sight." 

*'No,''  said  the  boy,  whose  eyes  grew  dim, 
"  I  don't  know^  w^here  the  man  might  be  ; 

And  a  great  gentleman  like  Him 
Would  hardly  stop  to  speak  to  me  ; 

But  if  He  comes  around,  Til  try 

To  ax  Him — doctor  savs  Til  die. 


"I  never  heard  of  Him  before ; 

But,  Bill,  if  I  could  only  walk, 
rd  try  to  find  him.     Shut  the  door ; 

It  hurts  me  so  I  can  not  talk." 
*'Then,  Bobby,  just  hold  up  your  hand, 
And  if  He  comes  He'll  understand.*' 


Up  w^ent  the  trembling  hand  to  tell 

Needs  that  the  white  lips  could  not  speak, 
469 


A  STREET  ARAB'S  PRAYER. 

Fluttered  a  moment  there  and  fell — 

Went  up  again  ;  but,  ah  I  too  weak 
Was  litde  Bob  to  hold  it  there  ; 
And  then  he  wept  in  his  despair. 

**  Don't  try  it,  Bobby,"  said  his  friend  ; 

"  Give  me  your  hand  ;  I'll  fix  it  up." 
And  with  his  pillow,  end  to  end. 

He  deftly  improvised  a  prop  ; 
And  all  night  long  the  voiceless  prayer 
Of  that  small  hand  was  offered  there. 

And  when  the  morning  looked  abroad, 
And  sunbeams  kissed  that  silent  bed. 

The  hand  still  pointed  up  to  God, 
And  little  pauper  Bob  was  dead. 

But,  by  his  face  so  calm  and  fair. 

Men  knew  that  Jesus  had  been  there. 


"^JyUJl'*^ 


470 


^^^NECDeJFE^feE-fPeR^CE-fSr^EEIiEY.Ji^* 


X  the  multitude  that  gathered,  waiting,  watch- 
ing round  the  cars. 
Did  they  seek  a  fair  resemblance  of  Apollo 
^-^  or  of  Mars  ? 

Did  the}'  think  the  scintillations  of  a  great, 

undaunted  soul 
Would  surround  him  with  a  nimbus  or  a 
gleaming  aureole? 

Did  they  think,  because  his  spirit  has  the 

power  to  enthuse 
The   heart   of  old  humanity  with  larger, 

grander  views. 
That  the  mortal  form  that  shrined  it  must 

be  cast  in  tiner  mold. 
Arrayed  as  fashion  dictates,  and  bedecked 

with  gleaming  gold? 

•'A  party  of  gentlemen,  who  went  to  the  cars  to  meet  Horace 
Greeley,  were  unable  to  find  him,  turned  to  a  rough-looking 
countryman  and  asked  if  Horace  Greeley  was  on  the  train. 
"That  IS  my  name,"  said  the  man  with  the  slouched  hat  and 
weather-stained  coat. 


47 


ANECDOTE  OF  HORACE  GREELEY. 

Little  recks  it  what  ideal  their  imagination  wrought, 
Their  quest  was  unavailing  for  the  brilliant   form  they 

sought, 
But  they  found  a  common  mortal,  in  a  well-worn  coat  and 

hat, 
Unpretending,  unassuming — it  was  Greeley  for  a'  that. 

This  should  teach  the  useful  lesson  men  too  often  over- 
look, 

That  we  should  not  by  its  cover  judge  the  contents  of  a 
book. 

Horace  Greeley  is  a  volume,  bound,  I  own,  with  little 
care,  ^ 

But  containing  on  its  pages  things  unique  or  very  rare. 

From  my  very  soul  I  honor  the  imperial  mind  that  braves 
The    despotic   laws   that  fashion   makes  to  regulate  her 

slaves ; 
And  I  pity  him  who  never  dares  to  bend  or  break  a  rule 
That  etiquette  has  taught  him    in    her  dull   and   formal 

school. 

1850. 


■ft — I*- 


472 


-°'  ■4.-{-  <£ 


►JfT0•^PRg.+;^.•^gwHIN,•^M.TD.•|J< 


'NLY  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  heart, 

Gentle,  *  impassioned,    modest,  pure   and 
good :  ' 

^^  Yet  thou  hast  nobly  dared  to  step  apart 
^*        From     the     old     bounds     prescribed    to 
I  womanhood. 

Hast  dared  to  seek  the  long-forbidden  lore 
That  tolerates  no  priestess  at  its  shrine. 

Wherefore?     That  thy  soft  woman's  hand 
might  pour 
Into  life's  poisoned  chalice  rich  new  wine. 


A   thousand    tongues    are    busy   with    thy 
praise, 
A  thousand  true  hearts  bless  thee,  as  they 
should  ; 

473 


MRS.    R.    SWAIN,   M.    D. 

These  are  thy  witnesses  along  life's  ways, 

These  are  the  vouchers  that  thy  work  is  good. 


Is  that  not  good  which  strengthens  and  revives 
Life's  panting  forces,  purifies  their  spring ; 

Enters  her  tottering  citadel  and  drives 

The  usurper  thence,  leaving  behind  no  sting? 


Ask  the  poor  sufferer,  battling  with  his  pain. 
Longing  for  death  to  close  his  aching  eyes, 

While  fever's  fire  is  burning  in  each  vein, 
What  is  life's  chiefest  good,  supremest  prize? 

Will  he  not  answer  thee,  full  fast  and  fain  : 
''Take  all  I  have  of  power,  position,  wealth, 

But  give  my  wear^'  heart  surcease  from  pain  ; 
Leave  me  a  beggar,  but  restore  my  health?" 

O  gende  hand,  O  sympathetic  heart. 

In  thy  great  mission  never  stop  nor  stay, 

Till  God  shall  call  thee  to  life's  better  part, 
Beyond  the  blight  of  suffering  and  decay. 

If  persecuted,  thou  art  not  the  first 

Of  many  tortured  for  the  good  they  wrought ; 
There  are,  and  ever  have  been,  hearts  a-thirst 

To  bring  the  best  and  noblest  works  to  naught. 

474 


MRS.   R.    SWAIN,   M.    D. 

It  recks  not,  lady  ;  bravely  tread  thy  path, 
Regardless  of  the  jeers  they  fling  at  thee ; 

Did  they  not  pour  a  hotter,  redder  wrath 
On  one  who  healed  of  old  in  Galilee  ? 


Where  angels  w^alk  the  earth  in  human  guise, 

The  fire  of  persecution  rages  most ; 
But,  like  the  fabled  Phoenix,  truth  w^ill  rise 
'  From  the  wan  ashes  of  the  holocaust. 

Beech  Bank,  July,  1878. 


475 


iUiiiiiiiif^Miiiiiiiiiiiiiii  f 


':<  H-  ►; 


^^ConiiD^WE. 


iffr^" 


^. 


our  dwelling  were  a  palace 

Furnished  with  unbounded  wealth, 
If  the  red  wine  in  life's  chalice 

Always  flowed  with  perfect  health, 
W?^^ %   Could  we  feel  for  our  sick  neighbor. 
Who  is  meanly  housed  and  poor, 
^^     Or  for  him  whose  daily  labor 

Keeps  gaunt  famine  from  his  door? 


If  our  raiment  were  the  fairest 

That  the  Indies  can  afford, 
If  the  richest  food  and  rarest 

Daily  crowned  our  glittering  board, 
Would  our  sympathies  awaken. 

Would  our  velvet  hands  be  spread 
For  the  outcast,  the  forsaken. 

Who  have  neither  home  nor  bread? 


476 


COULD   WE. 

If  our  days  were  filled  with  pleasure, 

And  our  nights  replete  with  peace, 
Should  we  ever  learn  to  measure 

Pangs  and  pains  that  never  cease? 
Or,  if  all  we  ask  w'ere  given 

By  the  Father's  bounteous  grace. 
Should  we  ever  think  of  Heaven 

As  a  better,  happier  place  ? 


Indianapolis,  i86i. 


477 


o-£S>- 


^  JilRg.  V  JiIedi^js^  vfiaiiDjsBEr^i^YvDawNiE/ 


CY  brow,  serene  and  white  ; 
Eyes,  aweary  of  the  hght ; 
Lips  that  have  no  word  to  say, 
Since  that  fateful  3'esterday  ; 
Tired  hands  and  way-worn  feet ; 
Heart  that  could  no  longer  beat 
To  anxiety  and  grief — 
Death  has  brought  a  kind  relief. 
Nevermore  this  quiet  brain 
Will  respond  to  joy  or  pain  ; 
Like  a  shattered  harp,  unstrung, 
All  its  melodies  are  sung. 
Form  of  our  familiar  friend, 
Down  the  years — is  this  the  end? 


In  the  dim,  uncertain  light. 
Lying,  like  a  bride  bedight, 

478 


MRS.    MELISSA   GOLDSBERRY   DOWNIE. 

Crowned  with  blossoms  pure  and  white, 

Soon  to  leave  for  some  far  shore, 

Whence  thou  wilt  return  no  more. 

On  thy  calm  and  placid  face, 

One  who  knew  thee  long  can  trace 

Something  of  the  touching  grace 

And  expression,  sweet  and  good. 

Of  thy  happy  maidenhood. 

When  thy  feet  went  down  the  hours. 

Through  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers. 

Nothing  'twixt  the  then  and  now 

Is  imprinted  on  thy  brow. 

Not  the  shadow^  of  a  care. 

Pain  nor  sorrow  lingers  there ; 

Not  a  tracery  nor  stain 

Of  the  tears  that  fell  like  rain ; 

Nothing,  save  thy  silvered  hair, 

Witnesseth  of  time  and  care. 

Are  the  years  that  lie  between 
As  if  they  had  never  been  ? 
Doth  no  memory  remain 
Of  life's  losses  or  its  gain, 
Of  its  pleasures  or  its  pain? 
Is  the  rest,  so  quickly  won. 
In  the  new  life  just  begun. 
So  absorbing,  so  intense. 
As  to  wile  away  the  sense 
Of  the  lights  and  shadows  rife 
On  the  plane  of  lower  life? 
We  but  know  thy  soul  is  free. 
479 


MRS.   MELISSA  GOLDSBERRY   DOWNIE. 

Love  is  fain  to  follow  thee ; 

But  thy  path  we  can  not  see 

Through  the  boundless  realms  of  space, 

To  thy  future  dwelling  place  ; 

For  the  dust  of  earth-life  lies 

On  our  hearts  and  on  our  eyes. 

Thou  hast  duly  done  thy  part, 
Generous  mind  and  tender  heart ; 
Sown,  that  other  hands  might  reap ; 
Waked,  that  other  eyes  might  sleep ; 
And  however  cflre  opprest, 
Toiled  that  others  might  have  rest. 
Warm  as  sunshine  and  as  free, 
Was  thy  gentle  charity  ; 
Flowing  out,  in  word  and  deed, 
To  the  helpless  in  their  need ; 
Soothing  sorrows  not  thine  own, 
Reaping  pain  thou  hadst  not  sown. 
Sufiering  bore  a  passport  free 
To  thy  warmest  sympathy  ; 
Never  pallid  want  nor  pain 
Made  appeal  to  thee  in  vain. 
While  the  hungry,  shivering  poor, 
Left  a  blessing  at  thy  door. 
Angels  put  on  record  true 
Noble  deeds  no  mortal  knew. 
So  thy  human  life  was  past. 
Shielding  others  from  the  blast, 
Self-forgetting  till  the  last. 

Bbbch  Bank,  January  i8,  1879. 

480 


"^^r^Ji^^tz^.J^^ 


^^^v]^EPIiY:i£<- 


O,  no  ;  I  am  not  lonely, 

From  the  busy  world  apart ; 

My  pulses  beat  responsive 

To  the  great  all-mother's  heart, 

Far  from  the  noise  and  bustle 
Of  the  Babel  bourse  and  mart. 

I  love  the  gentle  voices 

Of  the  brooklet  and  the  breeze ; 
Love  the  shady  vale,  the  hillside, 

And  the  grand  old  forest  trees, 
And  never  could  be  lonesome 

In  the  company  of  these. 

I  have  never  seen  a  dryad. 
Never  seen  a  faun  or  fay ; 

But  in  the  cool,  green  woodlands. 
Are  spirits  blithe  as  they  ; 

I  hear  the  merry  murmur 

Of  their  songs  the  livelong  day. 
481 


b-Zl 


A    REPLY. 

You  want  to  know,  dear  lady, 
How  on  earth  I  spend  my  time? 

Well,  since  I'm  in  the  humor, 
I  will  answer  you  in  rhyme, 

But  must  premise,  the  story 
Will  have  nothing  of  sublime. 

I  make  my  bed  at  morning, 

Sometimes  sweep  the  chamber  floor, 
Pick  up  the  scattered  garments 

The  little  children  wore. 
Fill  and  trim  the  coal-oil  burner. 

And  drive  the  flies  outdoor. 

Then  air  and  dust  the  parlor, 
With  plumes  from  turkey  wings,. 

And  rearrange  the  nicknacks — 
Old,  precious,  priceless  thmgs, 

Reminders  of  far  countries. 
And  delightful  wanderings. 

I  try  to  make  a  picture. 
With  table,  sofa  and  chair, 

Laying  a  book  or  a  paper 
Carelessly  here  and  there. 

To  give  to  the  tout-ensemble 
A  cozy,  home-like  air. 

Then  I  feed  the  hixhy  cliick^-us. 

White  and  yellow,  black  and  gray  ; 
482 


A   REPLY. 

Look  up  the  dump}^  ducklings 
Or  the  turkeys  gone  astray, 

Or  read  in  the  morning  paper 
The  doings  of  yesterday. 

Or  watch  the  sturdy  ploughman, 

Afield  at  early  morn, 
Plodding  along  the  furrow, 

Stopping  to  straighten  the  corn. 
Or  leading  his  horse  to  water 

At  sound  of  the  dinner  horn. 

Then  hie  me  to  the  meadow, 

Where  all  hands  are  raking  hay, 

Fearing  the  smallest  cloudlet 
That  obscures  a  solar  ray. 

And  hoping  the  rain  will  tarry 
Till  harvest  is  stored  away. 

No,  no  ;  I  am  not  lonesome 
Living  on  my  little  farm ; 

Its  labors  are  rewarded, 

And  its  duties  have  a  charm 

To  elevate  the  spirit 

And  to  keep  affection  warm. 

And  while  my  hands  are  busy 
With  the  work  that  must  be  done. 

Through  my  brain  an  undercurrent 
Of  fancy  seems  to  nan, 

483 


A   REPLY. 

Like  a  streamlet  blossom-shaded 
From  the  ardor  of  the  sun. 

And  when  the  shadows  lengthen 
And  climb  the  beechen  hill ; 

When  Nature  lays  her  finger 
On  her  lips  and  all  is  still, 

I  write  the  rhymic  numbers 
That  come  and  go  at  will. 


Beech  Bank,  July,  1879. 


484 


^TpE :  CpmD^EM :  0E  v^aMME]^.< 


iHE  April  rain  falling  is  wooing  and  calling 
The    children   of    Summer   to    life    and 
light ; 
)And    little   feet  clamber  up   from   the  still 
chamber 
Where,  since  November,  they  have  slept 
in  night. 

We  shall  hear  the  humming  of  their  sweet- 
hearts coming, 
Afloat  on  the  wing  of  the  purple  air, 
And   see  in  the  valleys,  on   hillsides  and 
alleys. 
By  hovel  and  palace,  their  faces  fair. 


In  fallow   and  meadov/,   in   sunshine   and 
shadow, 
In  prairies  and  woodlands,  dingles  and 
dells  ; 

48s 


THE   CHILDREN    OF    SUMMER. 

Where  lichens  are  clinging  and  summer  birds  singing, 
They  will  soon  be  ringing  their  fairy  bells. 

Some  glowing  and  gleaming,  some  pensively  dreaming, 
Some  clinging  close  to  their  mother,  the  sod ; 

Some  proudly  aspiring,  in  queenl}^  attiring 
To  win  the  admiring  gaze  of  their  god. 


mm^>. 


In  all  hues  and  tinges,  with  ruffles  and  fringes, 
They  are  coming  now  from  their  seeming  death. 

With  their  crowns  and  crosses,  and  in\  sii*.  al  mosses, 
Bright  silken  flosses  and  perfumed  breath ; 
486 


THE   CHILD.REN   OF    SUMMER. 

Some  wearing  white  satin,  with  soft  names  in  Latin, 
With  garnets  and  pearis  in  their  diadems ; 

Some  in  velvets,  shining  with  silvery  lining, 
Proudly  reclining  on  emerald  stems ; 

Some  cautiously  creeping  and  daintily  peeping, 
From  under  a  stone  or  a  thorny  hedge  ; 

Some  veiling  their  faces  with  delicate  laces, 
In  lowly  places,  by  marsh  and  sedge. 

They  are  beautiful  teachers,  voiceless  preachers 
Of  the  sweetest  lessons  the  soul  may  learn  ; 

For  their  life  is  a  prayer  to  the  Father  whose  care 
Fills  their  chalices  fair  from  His  golden  urn. 

Blessing  the  lowliest,  crowning  the  holiest, 
Swing  their  censers  in  garden  and  grove ; 

Like  angels  weeping  where  the  dead  are  sleeping — 
Like  angels  keeping  the  vigil  of  love. 

On  valley  and  mountain,  by  river  and  fountain, 
By  wilderness  ways  and  populous  marts, 

They  minister  pleasure,  and  give  without  measure 
Delicious  treasure  from  golden  hearts. 

With  their  tender  faces  and  odorous  graces, 
They  will  bring  the  blessing  of  summer  days 

To  many  an  attic,  where  bards  erratic. 
In  dreams  ecstatic,  sing  deathless  lays. 

487 


THE   CHILDREN    OF   SUMMER. 

Thank    Heaven   for   ihe   flowers  that  brighten  earth's 
bowers ! 

They  are  types  of  life  below  and  above — 
Types  dimly  revealing  God's  merciful  dealing, 

Signing  and  sealing  his  charter  of  love. 


488 


^j|-T0*¥pe^Fmwe^S.3 


'N- 


PRESENTED    BY   A   FAIR   GIRL.* 


"  "^^^^^^^I^^^  <^^c>  you  fade  so  soon,  fair  flowers? 
M^  Is  it  for  love  of  your  native  bowers  ? 
(&  /^t.,.^       '  ^^^'  your  sweet  companions  blooming  there 
^  ''  For  the  golden  sunshine's  loving  care  ; 

For  the  twilight  dew, 
So  tender  and  true, 
And  the  soft  caress  of  the  purple  air? 


Do  ye  miss  the  shadows  cool  and  deep 
Of  leaves  that  whisper  themselves  to  sleep? 
Or  pine  for  the  kiss  of  the  soft  starlight 
That  trembled  down,  so  still  and  white, 

From  its  home  above. 

With  its  sainth'  love. 
To  sleep  in  your  hearts  through  the  livelong 
niglu? 

*Miss  Juliette  Moore. 


489 


TO    THE    FLOWERS. 

Miss  ye  the  song  of  the  whippoorwill, 
The  rhythmic  chant  of  the  meadow  rill? 
Or  the  tinkling  fall  of  summer  rain, 
That  thrilled  your  fibres  to  joy  and  pain, 

With  the  merry  beat 

Of  its  silvery  feet, 
And  the  plaintive  tone  of  its  far  refrain  ? 


Or,  are  ye  bound  by  a  magic  spell 

To  the  maiden  who  tended  and  loved  ye  well? 

Miss  ye  the  tread  of  her  fairy  feet — 

The  thrill  of  her  laughter,  low  and  sweet, 

And  her  genUe  face 

Aglow  with  the  grace 
Of  the  tenderest  heart  that  ever  beat? 


Pine  ye  for  the  dark  brown  eyes  that  shone, 
Like  precious  gems  in  Parian  stone? 
For  the  dainty  smile  that  seemed  to  break 
In  ripples  of  light,  for  love's  dear  sake, 

Round  the  ruby  mouth. 

As  winds  from  the  south 
Bedimple  the  breast  of  a  quiet  lake? 

Her  heart  is  as  pure  as  thine,  white  rose, 
Her  brow  as  fair  as  thy  fragrant  snows. 
Her  thoughts  like  leaves  in  a  sweet  bud  lie, 
Wrapped  in  a  beautiful  mystery, 
490 


TO    THE    FLOWERS. 

In  purple  and  gold, 
Her  love  untold, 
Is  hidden  away  from  the  cold  world's  eye. 

I  pray  that  her  future  path  may  lie 
In  the  rosy  light  of  a  cloudless  sky  ; 
That  tears  and  sorrow  may  never  blight. 
Nor  leave  a  stain  on  a  soul  so  white ; 

That  her  cheek  and  brow, 

So  radiant  now. 
May  be  ever  lovely  in  Time's  despite. 

Beech  Bank,  February  23,  1880. 


491 


^^Cen^^enni^IitOde.oh- 


JLD  Time  has  written,  with  unerring  hand, 
A  hundred  years  upon  the  sea  and  land, 
Has  written,  on  the  pathway  of  the  spheres, 
And   on   the  walls  of  Heaven,  a  hundred 

years, 
Since,  poor  and  friendless,  feeble  and  forlorn. 
An  infant  nation  to  the  world  was  born. 
England,    its    mother,    blind   with    jealous 

wrath. 
And  fain  to   sweep  the   intruder  from  her 

path, 
Loosed  all  her  war  dogs  with  its  earliest 

breath. 
To  hunt  it  down  and  worry  it  to  death. 
The  startled  winds  and  waters  swiftly  bore, 
From   land  to   land,  from   distant  shore  to 

shore, 
The  muttered  thunder  of  Ikt  lions  roar. 
492 


CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

The  Russian  eagle  flapped  his  sable  wing, 

And  croaked  :     ''  Beware,  it  is  a  dangerous  thing 

To  break  allegiance  to  a  rightful  king.'' 

Italia  hid  herself  among  her  flowers. 

Hispania  sneered  :     "  It  is  no  quarrel  of  ours." 

The  Porte  Sublime  exclaimed,  from  his  divan : 

"Allah,  il  allah !  Let  him  whip  who  can." 

Greece,  bowed  and  burdened,  could  no  succor  give  ; 

But  old  Helvetia  cried  :     "  Vive  I'enfant,  vive  ;" 

And  France,  by  human  sympathy  beguiled, 

Unfurled  her  fleur  de  lis,  and  kissed  the  child  ; 

And  brave  men  nursed  him,  and  his  sponsors  stood 

Through  a  baptism  of  fire,  and  tears,  and  blood. 

Aye,  brave  men  nursed  him,  with  heart,  mind  and 

strength. 
Through  nakedness  and  famine,  till  at  length 
He  grew  in  vigor,  beauty,  grace  and  size, 
A  wonder  and  a  glory  in  men's  eyes. 
Frugal  and  self-reliant,  wise  and  good. 
With  sinews  knit  by  toil  to  hardihood ; 
With  genius  to  devise  and  will  to  do, 
Fearless  of  danger,  to  his  conscience  true, 
He  was,  withal,  a  staunch  republican, 
Who,  in  despite  of  every  bar  and  ban, 
Stood  forth  to  represent  the  rights  of  man. 
And  holding  all  men  equal,  all  men  free 
To  choose  their  government  and  rulers,  he 
No  homage  paid  to  lineal  royalty, 
To  loftv  birth,  to  kingly  crown  or  creed, 
But  held  him  noble,  who  in  word  and  deed 
Was  honest  and  sincere,  upright  and  true, 

493 


CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

In  all  that  Heaven  appointed  him  to  do, 
While  lordly  rulers  watched,  with  jealous  eyes 
And  grudging  sympathy,  his  certain  rise, 
And  failed  to  comprehend  the  grand  intent 
Of  what  they  called  "A  wild  experiment." 
He  threw  his  starry  banner  to  the  breeze ; 
Sent  out  his  armed  ships  to  foreign  seas ; 
Hurled  back  invasion,  with  an  iron  hand 
And  lion  heart,  from  his  beloved  land ; 
Maintained  the  right  against  tyrannic  WTong ; 
Made  his  defenses  and  his  bulwarks  strong, 
And  taught  all  men,  upon  the  land  and  sea, 
To  treat  his  stars  and  stripes  v^^ith  courtesy. 
Meanwhile  he  made  just  laws  to  govern  all 
His  numerous  children,  whether  great  or  small ; 
Cared  for  their  interest  with  paternal  care, 
Removed  the  burdens  that  were  hard  to  bear, 
And  in  the  commonwealth  gave  each  his  share ; 
Encouraged  science,  industry  and  art, 
In  field  and  forum,  factory,  mine  and  mart. 
And  won  from  winds  and  waters,  sun  and  soil, 
A  wholesome  competence  by  honest  toil. 
His  fame  went  out  to  countries  far  away, 
Where  kings  and  kaisers  held  despotic  sway, 
And  many  an  eager  heart  and  stalwart  arm 
Forsook  the  ancient  shop,  the  outworn  farm, 
And  ventured  all  upon  the  wild  sea  foam. 
To  find  in  Freedom's  land  a  freeman's  home ; 
And,  by  degrees,  the  selfish  old  world  grew 
Into  fraternal  feeling  with  the  new, 

494 


CENTENNIAL    ODE. 

Until  the  children  of  all  climes,  all  lands, 

Beneath  the  stars  and  stripes,  strike  friendly  hands ; 

And,  as  our  hero  prospered  down  the  years. 

Beyond  all  human  hopes,  all  human  fears. 

He  bought  broad  lands  toward  the  setting  sun, 

And  added  States  to  those  already  won  : 

Surve}ed  his  coasts  and  measured  mountain  chains 

Mined  yellow  gold  from  earth's  prolific  veins  ; 

Fostered  all  learning  with  a  liberal  hand. 

And  built  grand  thoroughfares  throughout  the  land ; 

Fettered  the  steam  and  curbed  its  stubborn  force 

To  wing  his  ships  and  speed  his  iron  horse, 

From  port  to  port,  from  busy  mart  to  mart, 

O'er  mighty  rivers,  through  the  mountain's  heart, 

Until  the  clangor  of  his  tread  is  heard 

At  morn  and  midnight,  starthng  beast  and  bird, 

From  sea  to  sea,  through  every  new-born  State, 

From  the  Atlandc  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

The  world  has  wiser  grown  since  he  began 

To  assert  the  inalienable  rights  of  man. 

The  holy  fire  he  kindled  in  the  night. 

On  Freedom's  altar,  is  still  burning  bright, 

And  all  mankind  see  clearer  in  its  light. 

The  stale  opinions  of  a  primal  day. 

And  w^rongs  that  bore  from  age  to  age  their  sway, 

Holding  in  leash  the  consciences  of  men, 

Are  vanquished  by  free  speech,  free  press,  free  pen. 

He  made  the  lightning  his  obedient  slave. 

To  bear  unuttered  thought  through  wind  and  w^ave 

To  every  ocean,  contir;.^nt  and  clime, 

495 


CENTENNIAL   ODE. 

With  speed  that  laughs  at  space  and  outruns  Time. 
Only  a  hundred  years  have  gone  their  way 
Since  the  young  child  was  born,  that  is  to-day 
A  giant,  mighty,  honored  and  renowned. 
Admired  and  feared  to  earth's  remotest  bound  : 
On  every  barren  coast  and  sea-girt  isle, 
Where  the  weaves  murmur  or  the  sunbeams  smile, 
On  every  mountain  top  and  valley  green. 
Wherever  track  or  trace  of  man  has  been, 
The  errant  winds  have  syllabled  his  name. 
And  unseen  fingers  chronicled  his  fame. 
And  now  his  broad  and  beautiful  domain 
Stretches  away  o'er  mountain  peak  and  plain. 
From  boreal  realms  of  bitter  frost  and  snow, 
To  climes  where  citrons  and  bananas  grow  : 
From  Eastern  hills  that  kiss  the  rosy  dawn. 
To  the  fair,  sun-down  shores  of  Oregon. 
And  Human  Freedom,  born  of  Love  and  Truth, 
Fair  with  the  beauty  of  eternal  youth, 
Waves  the  star-spangled  banner  in  her  hand 
Above  the  continent,  from  strand  to  strand. 

Beech  Bank,  September  27,  1875. 


-8> «- 


496 


^2|-liGY 


E.*^ 


WEET  enslaver  of  the  heart, 
mS^       Radiant  spirit  born  above, 
^i^  Who  can  tell  us  what  thou  art, 

Winning,  wildering,  witching  love? 


Hope  and  memor}^,  care  and  thought, 
Joy  and  sorrows  fear  and  pain. 

All  mysteriously  inwrought 
Are  the  linklets  of  thy  chain. 

Giver  of  our  earliest  breath  ; 

Soother  when  our  hearts  are  riven ; 
Mourner  by  the  bed  of  death  : 

Porter  at  the  gate  of  Heaven  ; 


497 


^32 


LOVE. 

Dweller  by  the  cottage  hearth  ; 

Ruler  in  the  palace  bovver ; 
Holiest  git't  of  Heaven  to  earth, 

How  transcendent  is  thy  power ! 

With  th}'  soul-entrancing  arts, 

Thou  dost  lead  us  willing  slaves — 

Slaves  with  fetters  on  our  hearts, 
From  our  cradles  to  our  graves ; 

Slaves  that  sigh  not  to  be  free  ; 

Slaves  that  pine  when  thou  hast  flown ; 
For  this  world,  bereft  of  thee. 

Is  a  desert  dark  and  lone. 

Fan  us  with  thy  wing  divine. 

Wanderer  from  the  realms  above. 

While  we  worship  at  thy  shrine. 
Winning,  wildering,  witching  love. 

Indianapolis,  October,  1850. 


498 


■<&-o 


•^'Fg4^D^.<- 


1 1 E  south  wind  bears  in  at  the  lattice 
T;        The  breath  of  Itaha's  flowers, 
RecalHng  the  days  when  together 
//®     We  roamed  through  the  Doria's  bowers. 

The  days  when  we  strayed  by  the  Tiber, 
And  dreamed  in  the  forum  of  Rome  : 

Do  you  think  of  them  now,  darling  Ada, 
Awav  in  our  dear  Western  home? 


Do  you  think  of  your  ramble  with  Lina 

To  fabled  Egeria's  cave  : 
Or  our  tribute  of  tears  when  we  gathered 

A  blossom  from  poor  Shelley's  grave? 


Do  you  think  of  our  walks  bv  the  Arno, 
When  the  picture  of  sunset  above 

Was  painted  below  in  the  waters, 
As  love  is  reflected  by  love  ; 
499 


TO   ADA. 

Of  our  day  in  Fiesole's  gardens, 

The  stream  singing  on  through  the  shade, 

The  gray  Tuscan  wall  where  we  rested, 

And  the  old  Gothic  church  where  we  prayed? 

We  stretch  out  our  hands  to  the  future, 
And  fly  from  the  joys  of  the  past ; 

And  of  all  the  bright  dreams  Hope  has  woven, 
The  sweetest  is  always  the  last. 

But  the  memory  of  beautiful  hours 

Should  stay  when  their  moments  have  fled, 

And  minister  still,  like  the  odors 

Of  flowers,  when  their  petals  are  dead. 

Geneva,  Switzcrland,  1858. 


^ate<- 


S-TO 


-^^r 


^T© :  JiJlg^vEljISE  V  Jd^IiEGaE,- 


OF    GENEVA,    SWITZERLAND. 


IKE  the  odorous  breath  of  a  rose  in  June ; 
^•;£  Like  the  sweet  refrain  of  a  far-off  tune ; 
Like  a  gentle  breeze  from  a  summer  sea, 
The  thought  of  thy  lovehness  comes  to  me, 
Dearest  Elise. 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  wonderland  ; 
I  sit  in  the  midst  of  thy  household  band. 
And  whisper  the  love  I  could  never  say 
In  the  world's  cold  speech,  in  the  light  of 
day, 

Darling  Elise. 

I  see  the  waves  of  thy  blue  Rhone  flow. 
See  thy  glorious  mountains  crowned   with 

snow. 
And  wander  again  by  thy  storied  lake. 
So  fair,  and  yet  fairer  for  thy  sweet  sake, 
Charming  Elise. 


MISS    ELISE   MALEGUE. 

And  I  hope,  with  a  hope  undimmed  b\'  fear, 
That  some  happy  day  of  an  unborn  vcar, 
I  shall  be  permitted  by  God's  good  grace, 
To  clasp  thee  again  in  a  fond  embrace, 
Gentle  Ehse. 

That  He  who  dwelleth  in  infinite  light, 
May  allot  thee  a  path  serene  and  bright. 
May  love  thee  and  lead  thee  from  day  to  day, 
Is  the  wish  I  cherish,  the  prayer  I  pray. 
For  thee,  Elise. 

Beech  Bank,  June,  1876. 


502 


^0]V[vTpE :  De;55^H  :  0E  :•  JiIkJS.  vIlOaigH  •  Wr(I6P^. 


TO    HER    HUSBAND,    HON.   JOS.    A.    WRIGHT. 


— ^SS»»4»- 


jROM  kindred  and  home,  all  alone,  she  is  gone 
;^^     To  a  country-  unknown,  save  in  story ; 
^  But  her  beautiful  soul  will  awaken  at  dawn, 
j^^^^^f**      To  a  new  life  of  infinite  glory. 


fi 


We  watched  by  her  side  through  the  last 
bitter  night. 
Fond  words  of  affection  repeating, 
Till  her  lip  lost  its  hue  and  her  dark  eye  its 
light. 
And  slowly  her  pure  heart  stopped  beat- 
ing. 


And,  weeping,  we  followed  her  down  to  the 
sliore 
Of  the  silent  and  shadowy  river. 
But  we  saw  not  the  boatman  that  carried 
her  o'er. 
Nor  the  angels  sent  down  to  receive  her. 

503 


MRS.    LOUISA  WRIGHT. 

« 

We  saw  not  at  parting  a  wave  of  her  hand, 
For  our  vision  was  dim  and  uncertain  ; 

We  caught  not  a  glimpse  of  the  thitherward  strand, 
When  the  messenger  lifted  the  curtain. 

We  knew  she  had  passed  from  the  trials  of  earth. 
To  the  rest  God  has  promised  the  weary  : 

But  wept  when  we  thought  of  thy  desolate  hearth, 
And  thy  future  so  lonely,  so  dreary ! 

We  wept  for  our  friend,  for  the  sweet,  gentle  face, 
With  kindness  and  sympathy  lighted  ; 

The  womanly  tenderness,  beauty  and  grace, 
That  the  Silent  Destroyer  had  blighted. 

We  wept  for  her  child,  her  one  darling — bereft 

Of  the  love  of  a  true,  tender  mother, 
Well  knowing  the  void  in  his  life  she  had  left 

Could  never  be  filled  by  another. 

The  voice  that  consoled  thee,  when  trouble  was  sore, 
That  made  many  a  rough  pathway  even, 

Will  thrill  with  its  sweetness  thy  soul  nevermore 
Till  ye  meet  in  the  kingdom  of  Heaven. 

But  she  will  be  with  thee  again  in  the  hour 
When  trouble  ami  ».  aie  are  oppressing — 

An  angel  commissioned  by  infinite  power 
To  brighten  thy  way  with  a  blessing. 

5^4 


MRS.    LOUISA   WRIGHT. 

And  she  will  be  with  thee,  wherever  thou  art, 
When  the  shadow  of  death  darkens  o'er  thee, 

To  whisper  sweet  comfort  and  peace  to  thy  heart, 
Through  the  valley  she  traveled  before  thee. 

Then  bid  her  "  Good-night,"  she  has  gone  to  her  rest, 

AiTayed  in  love's  perfect  adorning ; 
It  will  be  but  a  day,  till  at  God's  high  behest. 

Thou  shalt  bid  her  a  happy  '•  Good  morning." 

Indianapolis,  June,  1852. 


505 


^^IlE^YI]V6-f3^ITZERIi^]\ID.3}£<. 


LEAVE  thee,  Switzerland,  with  many  tears, 
^_^        ^,    .  And   many   blessings   from   my   inmost 

^^Mjj||jg|  I  heart ; 

^MSjl^^^^^  thou   hast  been  to  me,   some   happy 
^  years, 

A  pleasant  home,  and  evermore  thou  art 
The  shrine  of  hopes  and  joys  which  were 
a  part 
Of  my  soul's  life ;   hopes,  joys,  not  all  in 
vain  ; 
And  so  God  bless  thee  I     E'en  these  tears 
that  start 
At  leaving  thee  are  born  of  a  sweet  pain 
For  that  which  was  so  bright,  but  may  not 
be  again. 


I   have  found  many  friends  in  thee,  fair 
land — 
Friends  whom  I  love  and  may  not  soon 
forget ; 
506 


LEAVING  SWITZERLAND. 

And  I  shall  turn  e'en  from  the  old  home-band 

To  those  I  leave  behind  with  fond  regret. 
Oh,  shall  we  meet  again  as  once  we  met? 
Will  he  be  with  us  whose  sweet  smile  did  make 
Sunshine  in  every  heart?     My  soul,  awake  ; 
Thou  must  be  brave  and  strong  for  his  beloved  sake. 

God  gives  me  light  sufficient  for  to-day ; 

Then  let  me  trust  His  mercy  and  be  still ; 
If  death  and  darkness  wait  along  my  wa}'. 

Shall  He  not  give  me  strength  and  grace  to  fill 

The  measure  of  my  task — to  do  His  will? 
If  my  life's  cup  should  mantle  to  the  brim 

With  bitterest  drops  that  sorrow  can  distil ; 
If  my  appointed  path  grow  cold  and  dim. 
Shall  it  not  lead  my  heart,  my  wayworn  feet  to  Him  ? 

Our  pathway  lies  across  the  broad,  deep  sea, 
Whose  angry  waves  no  timid  soul  may  dare ; 

Help  us  to  put  our  trust,  O  God,  in  thee  ; 

For  wildest  winds  may  rave  if  Thou  art  there 
With  thine  almighty  power  and  sleepless  care : 

And  if  to  thee,  All-Father,  it  seem  best 

To  call  us  hence,  help  us  with  faith  and  prayer 

To  fold  our  earthly  robes  and  take  our  rest. 

Waiting  for  thee  far  down  in  ocean's  silent  breast. 

Adieu,  sweet  friends  ;  adieu,  Alps,  lakes  and  streams  ! 
I  bear  your  image  in  my  heart's  deep  core  ; 

507 


LEAVING  SWITZERLAND. 

And  I  shall  often  see  ye  in  my  dreams, 

Shall  hear  the  rushing  torrents  and  the  roar 
Of  the  wild  avalanche,  till  life  is  o'er. 

One  last,  long  look,  Mont  Blanc  :  my  tearful  eyes 
May  see  thy  glorious  beauty  nevermore. 

Adieu,  ye  snow-clad  tow^ers  and  domes,  that  rise 

Like  some  white  city,  built  against  the  opal  skies. 

Land  of  Stauffacher,  Melcthal,   Furst  and  Tell, 

My  young  hope's  whilom  idol  and  its  goal, 
There  is  a  spirit  in  thine  air,  a  spell 

Upon  thine  i\lps,  to  waken  and  control 

The  aspirations  of  the  human  soul 
To  higher  life.     Thank  Heaven,  my  pathway  led 

Among  thy  shrines,  where  every  nook  and  knoll 
Is  hallowed  by  some  noble  heart  that  bled 
For  human  liberty.     Peace  to  thy  glorious  dead ! 

Geneva,  Switzerland,  April,  1858. 


508 


"^ 


S^^4^j^^4if*^4^^  ^ 


m^ 


I  U  U  I 


+  I  +  i  + 


UIT 


•i^  -i^  V^  V^  *^  *^  S^  V^  V^V  "ij^  ^ 


^5^0v^-fFRIEND.:W 


^EAR  lady,  on  a  summer  night, 

I  dreamed  of  thee  a  fairy  dream ; 
^^^^    We  seemed  to  rove  where  flowers  bedight 
The  margin  of  a  sparkling  stream, 
Wherein  a  pictm'e  of  the  skv 
Gleamed  through  a  bright  transparency. 
And  tin}'  waves,  in  shining  bands, 
Danced  along  the  silver  sands, 
And  seemed  to  say,  in  roundelay, 
"Maria!    Maria!" 

Above,  the  young  leaves  s\va}'ed  and  swung, 
In  purple  shade  and  golden  sheen. 

And  whispered,  in  an  unknown  tongue. 
To  drvads  in  their  hammocks  green  ; 

=:-Miss  Maria  Kitzinger.      Pronounced,  as  in  German,  Mah-ree-ah.) 


509 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

While  ardent  sunbeams  darted  through 
And  caught  away  the  trembling  dew, 
And  scores  of  wild  birds  seemed  to  sing 
Amidst  the  fragrant  blossoming, 

With  one  accord  that  sweetest  word  : 
*' Maria!     Maria!" 


The  eiTant  zeph^T  passing  o'er, 

Perchance  from  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
Just  touched  the  viewless  harp  he  bore 

To  low%  delicious  melody. 
Dropped  kisses  on  thy  forehead  fair, 
On  lip  and  cheek  and  silken  hair. 
While  graceful  lilies,  pure  and  sweet, 
Poured  out  their  incense  at  thy  feet, 
And  harebells  rang,  in  fairy  clang, 
*^  Maria!     Maria!" 

*'  These  fair  things  love  thee,  dear,"  I  said  ; 

'*And  each  its  simple  offering  brings. 
For  thee  the  flowers  their  odors  shed  : 

For  thee  the  sweetest  wood-bird  sings, 
Bright  wavelets  chant,  soft  winds  caress. 
Leaves  spread  their  cool,  green  shade  to  bless. 
And  sunshine  lends  a  softer  gleam." 
All  this  I  said,  love,  in  my  dream  : 

But  dreams  are  wrought  of  waking  thought, 
Maria !     Maria ! 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

O  lady,  if  I  were  the  king 

Of  some  delightful,  unknown  land, 
Incnxled  by  perpetual  spring. 

Unclouded  skies  and  breezes  bland, 
Where  Lo\'e  and  Pleasure  count  the  hours 
By  opening  buds  and  closing  flowers, 
rd  follow  thee,  through  shade  and  sheen, 
To  woo  and  win  thee  for  my  queen, 
And  thou  shouldst  be  the  world  to  me^ 
Maria !     Maria ! 

With  rubies  red  as  Etna's  wine, 

With  fairest  pearls  from  Persian  sea. 
And  diamonds  won  from  Orient  mine, 

rd  crown  thy  brow  right  royally ; 
Thy  silken  robes  of  daint}^  dyes 
Should  match  the  azure  of  thine  eves  ; 
A  thousand  willing  hands  should  spread 
The  fairest  flowers  beneath  thy  tread. 

And  Love  alone  should  guard  thy  throne, 
Maria !     Maria ! 

Beech  Bank,  July  4, 1879. 


•^ 


S" 


<-¥e4-PRS.-fP.^P.^DR^KE. 


H,  never,  lady,  had  I  met 

A  face  before  where  Heaven  had  set 

In  liquid,  wavy,  fitful  light. 
That  thrilling,  touching,  undefined 
Sheen  and  shadow  of  the  mind 

That  trembled  on  thy  brow  ; 
But  there  was  something  wild  and  high 
In  thy  proud  step  and  kiiullinu,"  eye. 

That  made  my  very  spirit  bow. 
'Twas  like  tbo  sprll   cartli's  daiighlt^rs  wore 
In  old  rorgollrn  daxs  of  xore, 
Wlu-n  an'.>('ls  ]c-t'l  liirir  home  above 
For  woman"^-  sinilo  and  w  oinan's  love. 
It  siH'inrtl  that  thou  wrvl  mmU  t<>  bK'SS, 
And   \ct    1    srciiu'd  to  l(>\c  thtT  less 
Than  soihT  hcinL-.s  I'onnd  thee      'rhe\' 


Had  nr\rr  tauLlhl  a  sini-K'  i 


512 


TO   MRS.    P.    H.    DRAKE. 

Of  that  pure  light  that  came  from  Heaven 
When  thy  proud  intellect  was  given. 
Still  they  were  beautiful :  their  eyes, 
Like  starlight  in  the  evening  skies, 
Half  concealing,  half  reveahng, 
Glowing  depths  of  love's  own  feeling, 
Linger  in  remembrance  yet. 
Like  dreams  I  may  not  soon  forget. 
Thou  didst  not  mingle  with  the  crowd. 
And  many  whispered  thou  wert  proud 
Of  thy  surpassing  beautv.     Still 
I  hovered  round,  against  m}-  will. 
Like  one  who  struggles  to  be  free 
From  some  strange  charmer's  witcherv. 
Lady,  I  did  not  love  thee  then, 
Nor  wish  that  we  might  meet  again. 
For  well  I  knew  that  wealth  and  state 

And  influence  were  thine, 
And  deemed  that  they  would  separate 

Thy  Starr}'  path  from  mine. 
I  did  not  dream  that  thou  wouldst  be 
The  angel  of  mv  destiny  ; 
That  thy  soft  praises  would  inspire 
The  music  of  mv  humble  lyre  : 
That  thou  wouldst  point  to  fame's  proud  chart 

When  darkness  o'er  my  spirit  stole. 
And  pour  the  sunshine  of  thy  heart 

Upon  mv  clouded  soul. 
I  did  not  know  thine  eye  could  melt 

And  bid  tlie  burning  tear-drop  start ; 

5^3  -^33 


TO   MRS.    P.    H.    DRAKE. 

That  sympathy  and  kindness  dwelt 
Like  jewels  in  thy  queenly  heart, 
Casting  afar  their  lovely  beams, 
To  light  the  dark,  the  troubled  streams 

Of  human  anguish,  human  grief; 
I  did  not  know  thy  cheek  would  pale 
At  weeping  sorrow's  mournful  tale. 
Nor  that  thy  hand  would  give  relief. 


514 


'W^f 


^5?  :PliE^vE6R :  Py  :  F;^RM  •  IlIPE. 


HANKS  for  your  letter,  dear  friend  of  mine  ; 
I  have  read  and  pondered  every  line, 
And  its  sweet  persuasions  half  incline 

My  heart  to  obey  your  calling. 
But  the  way  is  long,  the  days  are  cold, 
And  prithee,  lady,  do  not  scold 
When  I  whisper:     "  I  am  growing  old — 
The  leaves  of  my  life  are  falling." 

With  every  sun  that  rose  and  set, 

I  have  thought  of  you  since  last  we  met ; 

I  loved  you  then  and  I  love  you  yet, 

With  a  love  sincere  and  real — 
Not  for  the  mystical  light  that  lies 
On  the  red-ripe  lips  and  radiant  eyes, 
That  poets  worship  and  artists  prize. 

Of  a  not-to-be-found  ideal ; 


515 


A   PLEA   FOR   MY   FARM   LIFE. 

But  for  the  grace  ot^  a  cultured  mind, 
A  heart  by  womanly  love  refined, 
That  sees  the  foibles  of  humankind 

With  charity  true  and  tender ; 
A  soul  as  pure  as  an  Alpine  rose, 
Or  the  modest  flower  that  only  blows 
When  the  purple  curtains  of  twilight  close, 

And  the  sun  withdraws  his  splendor. 


I  should  have  written  you,  long  ago. 
But  must  confess  that  my  pen  is  slow^ 
To  con\'ey  the  thoughts  that  overflow 

My  heart  to  a  heartless  letter. 
Alas,  how  many  I  might  have  penned 
To  old  acquaintance  and  valued  friend. 
In  the  idle  hours  I  spare  and  spend 

In  vain  resolves  to  do  better. 


And  yet  I  am  busy  all  the  time, 
Mending  a  stocking,  mending  a  rhyme, 
Freeing  my  chamber  from  dust  and  grime, 

And  sometimes  writing  a  stanza  : 
Watching  the  boy  that  milks  the  cows. 
Tosses  the  hay  from  billowy  mows. 
And  turns  out  the  old  gray  mare  to  brouse, 

With  her  wee  bit,  brown  bonanza. 

Beside  this  doer  of  jobs  and  chores, 

I  have  had  some  workmen  painting  doors, 

5t6 


A  PLEA  FOR   MY  FARM   LIFE. 

Repairing  window,  relaying  floors, 

And  planning  rustic  bridges  ; 
Erecting  porticos  here  and  there, 
To  give  our  farmhouse  a  city  air, 
And  placing  ornaments  neat  and  fair 

On  the  eaves  and  roof-tree  ridges. 

Mine  was  the  task  to  superintend^ 

But  it  seemed  this  work  would  never  end — 

For  some  mechanics,  you  may  depend, 

Are  lazy  and  self-conceited. 
I  followed  their  steps  from  early  dawn, 
Till  the  latest  light  of  day  w^as  gone, 
Encouraging,  scolding,  driving  on, 

And  with  all  was  sadly  cheated. 

Does  this  seem  common  and  coarse  to  you — 
As  something  a  lady  should  not  do? 
That  view  of  the  case  is  doubtless  true. 

But  I  am  a  wayward  creature. 
I  never  could  see  as  others  see ; 
My  soul  is  erratic,  wild  and  free ; 
A  bird  on  the  wing,  a  wave  on  the  sea, 

Ruled  by  the  law  of  its  nature. 

From  what  I  have  said,  dear  friend,  you  see 
There  is  little  danger  that  ennui. 
Or  anything  else,  will  torture  me 
For  the  w^ant  of  occupation. 


A   PLEA  FOR   MY   FARM   LIFE. 

No,  thanks  to  the  httle  farm  I  own, 
Where  part  of  my  daily  bread  is  grown, 
For  body  and  mind  in  healthy  tone, 
Through  abundant  recreation. 


But  the  finest  gold  has  some  alio}', 
And  over  my  sparkling  springs  of  joy 
Comes,  now  and  then  a  litde  annoy. 

That  spices  our  care  and  labor. 
For  instance,  the  flood  that  came  to-day 
Carried  a  part  of  my  fence  away. 
And  shattered  the  barn,  well-stored  with  hay. 

Of  my  wealthy  friend  and  neighbor. 

But,  nevertheless,  I  like  my  farm  : 
Its  outdoor  labors  conceal  a  charm 
To  ward  off*  gossip  and  social  harm, 

Polidcal  rant  and  treason. 
It  is  fresh  and  fair  when  spring  is  here. 
Rich  when  the  harvest  time  is  near, 
Poetic  when  autumn  leaves  grow  sear. 

And  grand  in  the  winter  season. 

Here,  free  from  all  conviMitional  rule, 
I  can  follow  mv  fanr\  ,  (.aim  and  cool. 
And  learn  ni\-  Irsson  in  XaUn\ 's  school 

Of  the  golden  lore  she  teaches ; 
Can  learn  from  butterflies,  binls  and  Ihcs, 
From  whispering  lea\rs  and  nrant  brcc/A-, 

5>« 


A   PLEA   FOR   MY   FARM   LIFE. 

And  countless  innocent  things  like  these, 
Under  the  shade  of  my  beeches. 


There  many  a  stor}^  the  sweet  wind  tells 
To  the  low,  green  hills  and  purple  dells, 
Where  wild  flowers  ring  their  odorous  bells 
And  brown  bees  gather  their  treasure. 


There  bright  birds  chatter  the  livelong  day 
Of  beautiful  South-lands  far  away, 
And  wavelets  murmur  a  roundelay. 

And  dance  to  their  own  sweet  measure. 

519 


A  PLEA  FOR  MY  FARM   LIFE. 

Nay,  lady,  though  I  would  gladly  come. 
I  never  tire  of  my  rustic  home : 
Only  a  soul  that  is  deaf  and  dumb. 

Of  forest  and  field  grows  weary. 
The  loneliest  place  I  ever  found 
Is  where  society  goes  its  round 
With  gilded  fetters  of  fashion  bound, 

Heartless,  and  soulless,  and  dreary. 

But,  lady,  I  thank  j^ou  all  the  same. 
And  kiss  the  letter  that  bears  your  name ; 
I  was  just  as  happy  when  it  came 

As  if  I  had  found  a  treasure. 
I  hold  your  love  in  my  heart,  and  pray 
That  the  Lord  may  bless  you  da}^  by  day, 
Shed  light  and  beauty  along  your  way. 

And  give  you  of  love  large  measure. 

Beech  Bank,  February,  1876. 


"KT^' 


520 


^^JidY^DnaepwER.:^ 


HE  will  of  the  Lord  be  done  ! 
>-^.^     But  my  burning  tears  will  start, 

And  from  morning's  dawn  to  the  setting  sun, 
I  walk  in  the  w-ays  of  life  like  one 
With  a  bruised  and  bleeding  heart. 

I  remember,  as  in  a  dream, 

That  the  sunshine  once  w^as  bright ; 
That  I  loved  the  stars  and  golden  gleam 
That  barred  the  vallev  and  bound  the  stream 
On  a  purple  summer  night. 

I  remember  the  birds  and  flowers 

That  came  in  the  sweet  spring  time. 
When    I    threaded    a   path    through    fairy 

bowers, 
And    hand    in    hand   with  the   long  bright 
hours. 
Went  weaving  some  simple  rhyme. 

521 


MY  DAUGHTER. 

And  then  (oh,  the  days  were  fleet !) 

I  remember  a  cottage  hearth, 
Where  I  heard  the  patter  of  little  feet, 
And  the  voice  of  my  darling,  low  and  sweet, 

That  I  hear  no  more  on  earth. 

She  staid  but  a  little  while 

In  the  garb  that  mortals  wear, 
And  we  never  knew  till  we  missed  her  smile 
And  the  tender  love  that  knew  no  guile, 

That  an  angel  had  been  there. 

She  was  tired  and  needed  rest 

When  her  earthly  task  was  done. 
And  the  folded  robe  on  her  gentle  breast 
Trembles  no  more  with  her  heart's  unrest. 
Since  the  crown  of  life  is  won. 

She  sleeps  with  the  bright  brown  hair 

Shading  her  pale,  pure  brow. 
And  her  face  has  a  meek,  forgetful  air. 
Like  that  of  a  saint  absorbed  in  prayer, 

From  life  and  its  interests  now. 

She  went  in  the  drearj'  night. 

And  she  seemed  to  go  alone, 
For  we  could  not  see,  with  our  human  sight, 
The  angels  that  guided  her  steps  aright 

To  the  feet  of  the  Holy  One. 
522 


MY    DAUGHTER. 

She  will  open  her  weary  eyes, 

That  were  closed  so  dim  and  cold, 
To  behold,  with  wonder  and  glad  surprise, 
The  beautiful  fields  of  Paradise, 
And  the  streets  of  burnished  gold ; 

To  see,  by  the  jasper  light, 

The  throne  of  the  great  I  Am ; 
And  the  walls  of  beryl  and  chiysolite. 
And  the  martyred  saints  in  robes  of  white, 
That  follow  the  blessed  Lamb. 

And  there,  where  the  ransomed  dwell, 

And  the  weary  find  repose, 
I  shall  meet  the  darling  I  loved  so  well, 
With  a  love  that  tongue  can  never  tell — 

That  only  a  mother  knows. 


-HOH- 


523 


XO    XHK    PARHXXS    OF 


^I-|•]JI3F3FI^E♦^CH]^RIE♦^]^HY.3ie<- 


'Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me.' 


^ 


IKE  a  bud  that  bloomed  when  the  day  begun, 
And  folded  its  leaves  at  the  setting  sun, 
Was  the  bright,  brief  life  of  your  little  one. 
You  will  miss   her  voice    and  her  step,  I 

know^ 
As  the  days  of  the  future  come  and  go. 
For  you  never  shall  hear  them  again  below  ; 
But  do  not  weep, 
She  is  only  asleep, 
And  the  Father  in  Heaven  her  soul  will 
keep. 

Her  heart  has  forgotten  to  throb  and  thrill ; 
Her  little  white  hands  are  strangely  still ; 
She  has  gone  to  her  rest — it  is  God's  will. 
The  world  hath  sorrow,  and  trouble,  and 

pain ; 
To  live  is  to  sufier  and  toil  in  vain ; 


524 


LITTLE   CARRIE   RAY. 

Thank  God,  she  has  gone  from  it  free  from  stain. 
And  do  not  weep, 
She  is  only  asleep, 
And  the  Father  in  Heaven  her  soul  will  keep. 


Out  of  the  darkness,  the  storm  and  the  cold ; 
Out  of  the  world,  with  its  heart-aches  untold  ; 
She  has  gone,  dear  lamb,  to  the  Savior's  fold, 
Never  to  lose  the  rare  beaut v  and  grace 
Of  a  spotless  soul,  of  a  churub  face, 
Through  the  endless  ages  of  endless  space. 

Then  do  not  weep. 

She  is  only  asleep. 
And  the  Father  in  Heaven  her»soul  will  keep. 

She  has  prattled  and  sung  through  her  short,  bright 

day  ; 
It  is  evening  now,  she  is  tired  of  play ; 
Put  the  dear  litde  shoes  and  toys  away, 
Kiss  her  pure  lips  and  her  brow  so  white. 
Tuck  her  up  tenderly,  put  out  the  light, 
And  bid  the  wee  darling  a  long  "  Good-night." 

But  do  not  weep. 

She  is  only  asleep. 
And  the  Father  in  Heaven  her  soul  will  keep. 

Write  ye  on  the  beautiful  Hope,  all  riven, 

The  blessed  assurance  our  Lord  has  given  : 

*'  Of  such  little  ones  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 


LITTLE   CARRIE   RAY. 

And  trusting  His  love,  in  the  darkness  wait, 
Assured,  as  God  liveth,  or  soon  or  late, 
You  will  meet  her  again  at  the  golden  gate. 

But  do  not  weep. 

She  is  only  asleep, 
And  the  Father  in  Heaven  her  soul  will  keep. 

Elm-Croft,  January  23,  1869. 


526 


TpE :  L^35^  ••  Wo^D^vOE  vP6N/>D?INIEIi :  D. :  Pr;IIT3F. 


E  will  finish  this  another  time," 

He  said,  with  emotion  he  could  not  stay  ; 
But  the  story,  crow-ned  w ith  a  thought  sub- 
/^  lime, 

Was    finished  then  in  the   Lord's   own 
way. 

It  simply  told  of  a  time  and  place 

Where    a   brave   young   heart    on    trial 
stood 

With  a  strong  temptation,  face  to  face, 
Eschew^ed  the  evil  and  chose  the  good. 

A  beautiful  lesson  of  heart  and  pen — 

Not  taught  for  a  price  in  gold  or  fame, 
But   to  strengthen  the  hearts  of  ten^pted 
men, 
And  stay  young   feet  from  the  path  of 
shame. 

527 


LAST  WORDS  OF  HON.  D.  D.  PRATT. 

And  he  who  had  passed  that  hour  supreme 

With  a  bhuneless  conscience  and  stainless  hand, 

Had  gained  a  height  in  the  world's  esteem, 
Where  only  the  noble  tew  mav  stand. 

Earnest  and  upright,  trusted  and  true. 
He  bridged  no  duty  for  ease  or  gain. 

But  faithfully  did  what  he  found  to  do. 
And  kept  his  record  undimmed  by  stain. 

And,  looking  back  on  the  way  he  past, 

Through  the  shade  and  shine  of  storm  and  sun, 

To  the  humble  home  where  his  lot  was  cast. 
When  the  hopes  and  dreams  of  youth  begun, 

Where  a  tender  mother's  love  had  sown 

Good  seeds  when  the  morning  dew  was  rife. 

And  prayerfully  laid  the  cornerstone 
Of  a  truly  good  and  useful  life  ; 

He  felt  the  clasp  of  a  gende  hand 

Tliat  drew  him  in  hv  au  unseen  door. 

To  tlic  light  and  life  of  that  blessed  land 
Where  the  soul  finds  rest  tbrevermore. 

And  the  silent  messenger  of  grace 

So  quic-kly  w fouLilil  llu-  ICirrnal  will, 
That  thosi'  who  looked  on  his  pallid  face 

Could  ucw'v  know  when  liis  luari  ^rrw  still. 

528 


LAST  WORDS  OF  HON.  D.  D.  PRATT. 

Man}'  will  follow  as  years  go  by, 

And  some  will  lea\e  an  immortal  name ; 

But  never  a  man  will  live  and  die 
With  a  truer  heart  or  fairer  fame. 

Beech  Bank,  June,  1877. 


(Extract  from  the  article  he  dictated  a  few  seconds  before  he  died.) 

"The  old  State  Bank  was  chartered  in  1834,  and  until  its  arrangements  for  remit 
ting  money  had  been  completed,  Mr.  Fletcher's  practice  was  to  send  his  collections  by- 
private  hand  as  opportunity  offered.  It  was  late  in  the  fall  of  1835  that,  having  col- 
lected for  the  different  mercantile  firms  in  Cincinnati  about  $2,000,  hesent  me  on  horse- 
back by  the  Lawrenceburg  road  to  deliver  to  the  several  parties  interested  the  money 
so  collected.  As  I  was  passing  the  branch  bank,  then  recently  established,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  my  departure,  the  cashier  hailed  me  and  brought  cut  some  bundles  of  bank  bills 
folded  up,  and  stowed  then*  away  in  my  saddle  bags,  and  handed  me  letters  to  the  banks 
to  whom  the  packages  were  to  be  delivered.  He  stunned  me  by  saying  they  amounted 
to  $20,000.  I  suppose  my  friend  Thomas  H.  Sharpe  has  forgotten  the  circumstance,  but 
he  was  the  officer  of  the  bank  who  delivered  the  treasure.  The  matter  had  probably 
been  arranged  between  him  and  Mr.  Fletcher,  but  it  was  a  great  surprise  tome  to  be 
intrusted  with  the  charge  of  so  much  money.  <=  *  «  There  was  a  moment,  a  supreme 
and  critical  one,  when  the  voice  of  the  tempter  penetrated  my  ear.  it  was  the  old 
tempter  that  sung  in  the  ear  of  Eve. 

"  It  was  when  I  reached  the  crown  of  those  imperial  hills  that  overlook  the  Ohio 
river  when  approaching  Lawrenceburg  from  the  interior.  This  noble  stream  was  the 
great  artery  of  commerce  at  that  day,  before  a  railroad  west  of  Massachusetts  had  been 
built.  What  a  gay  spectacle  it  presented,  flashing  in  the  bright  sunlight,  covered  with 
flatboats,  with  rafts,  with  gay  painted  steamers  ascending  and  descending,  and  trans- 
porting their  passengers  in  brief  time  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  the  gateway  to  all  parts  of 
the  world.  1  had  but  to  sell  my  horse  and  go  aboard  one  of  these  with  my  treasure, 
and  I  was  absolutely  beyond  the  reach  of  pursuit. 

"  There  were  no  telegraphs  then  flashing  intelligence  by  an  agency  more  subtle  than 
steam,  and  far  outrunning  it;  no  extradition  treaties  requiring  foreign  governments  to 
return  the  felon. 

"  The  world  was  before  me,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  with  feeble  ties  connect- 
ing me  with  those  left  behind,  I  was  in  possession  of  a  lortune  for  those  early  days. 

"  1  recall  the  fact  that  this  thought  was  a  tenant  of  my  mind  for  a  moment,  and  for 
a  moment  only.  Bless  God,  it  found  no  hospitable  lodgment  any  longer.  And  what 
think  you,  gentle  reader,  were  the  associate  thoughts  that  came  to  my  rescue  ?  Away, 
over  rivers  and  mountains,  a  thousand  miles  distant,  in  a  humble  farm-house,  oa  a 
bench,  an  aged  mother  reading  to  her  boy  fMm  the  oracles  of  God."    *    *    * 

When  the  last  word  was  written,  he  said  to  his  amanuensis:  "We  will  finish  this 
another  time,"  and  died  in  a  few  seconds. 

529  ^34 


^«.. 


,  \'^=^A: 


tr*Tr*  •c<>5"TrtTr-Ti'x 


^^Le  :  Cp?5TE?IU  vDE  :Pl^E6NY/W 


AS  it  in  thee,  fair  Pregny,  other  while, 

That  Gallia's  sorrowing  Empress  sought 
repose  ? 
V©  And  did  thy  wondrous  loveliness  beguile 
Her  wounded  spirit  of  its  cniel  woes? 


Did  she  forget  to  weep  for  days  gone  by, 
Amidst  the  holy  quiet  of  thy  bowers. 

The  golden  sunshine  of  thy  summer  sky, 
The  beauty  of  thy  fountains,  trees  and 
flowers? 


To  muse,  to  dream  on  Leman's  shore ;  to 
grow 

Familiar  with  its  voices,  to  behold 
Its  face  at  morn  with  blushes  all  aglow, 

At  evening  crownefl  with  coronals  of  gold ; 

^■The  residence  of  Josephine,  in  Switzerland. 


LE   CHATEAU   DE   PREGNY. 

To  see  the  starlight  bind,  with  silver  bands, 
A  myriad  diamonds  on  the  pebbly  shore. 

Where  the  fair  wavelets  link  their  dimpled  hands, 
And  murmur  softly  :     "  We  return  no  more  ;" 

To  hold  communion  with  the  Alps  ;  to  climb 

The  vine-clad  hills  on  which  Mont  Blanc  looks  down  ; 

To  wed  heart,  mind  and  soul  to  the  sublime, 
Methinks  w^ere  recompense  for  a  lost  crown. 

Ay,  for  a  crown,  with  all  its  anxious  cares 

And  hollow  guild,  which  she  too  well  did  prove ; 

But  not  a  nation's  w^orship,  blessings,  prayers. 
Could  recompense  her  slighted  woman's  love. 

She  could  have  borne,  perchance,  with  wounded  pride, 

To  see  another  fill  her  regal  throne ; 
But,  oh  !  to  know  that  other  was  the  bride 

Of  him  w^hose  wedded  love  was  once  her  own, 


Wrought  a  wild  agony  of  pride  and  pain, 

Tormenting  jealousy,  all  bitter  strife, 
And  maddening  thought  that  poisons  heart  and  brain, 

And  burns  and  cankers  to  the  core  of  life. 

Oh,  in  the  loneliness  of  those  sad  days. 

Far  from  the  pomp  and  glare  of  courtly  strife, 

How  w^earily  she  turned  a  backward  gaze 
On  the  strange  panorama  of  her  life ! 

531 


LE   CHATEAU   DE  PREGNY. 

She  saw  a  summer  island  far  away, 

With  lofty  palm  trees  and  acacia  bowers, 

Where,  like  a  blossom's  breath,  a  wild-bird's  lay. 
Passed  o'er  her  sunny  heart  sweet  girlhood's  hours. 

Then,  in  an  ancient  minster,  dim  and  grand. 

There  was  a  white-robed  priest,  an  organ's  swell. 

And  she  did  kneel  and  give  her  maiden  hand 
And  plighted  troth  to  one  who  loved  her  well. 

Then  there  was  sudden  woe  and  weeping  sore. 
And  a  swift  messenger,  with  white  lips,  said 

Her  gallant  husband  would  return  no  more  ; 
He  fought  too  well,  too  bravely — he  was  dead  ! 

Then  was  a  prison  cell  and  brooding  night, 
Damp  walls,  cold  iron  bars  and  stifling  breath, 

And  the  deep  groans  of  those  whom  morn  would  light 
By  the  blood-crimsoned  guillotine  to  death. 

Then  there  were  jewelled  lamps  in  palace  halls. 
And  gallant  men  and  women  famed  and  fair, 

Statues  in  niches,  pictures  on  the  walls, 
Red  wine  and  revelry — and  she  was  there. 

Then  there  were  pealing  bells  and  nodding  plumes, 

Triumphal  arches,  royal  pageantry. 
High  altars,  waving  censers,  r  nr  jh  rliimes, 

Beauty,  magnificence  and  chivalry  ; 

532 


LE   CHATEAU   DE   PREGNY. 

An  armed  host,  with  eagle  banners  furled  ; 

Statesmen,  archhishops,  all  the  land's  renown, 
And  there  the  conqueror  of  half  a  world 

Placed  on  her  peerless  brow  an  empire's  crown. 

Then  courtly  men  and  noble  dames  were  met 

In  solemn  conclave  in  a  royal  hall ; 
Some  cheeks  were  pale,  and  many  an  eye  was  wet, 

And  there  was  sorrow  in  the  hearts  of  all. 


She  entered  there,  the  saddest  and  the  last ; 

She  wrote  one  litde  word — it  sealed  her  fate, 
Dimmed  all  the  present,  blotted  out  the  past, 

And  left  her  future  more  than  desolate. 

Geneva,  Switzerland,  December,  1855. 


533 


^^Wo-fTKE-fli^Dy-f  0K•^6IIEN♦^  JXl  YL^.:N- 


ADY,  in  vain  I  task  my  simple  muse 

To  find  the  utterance  Love  is  fain  to  seek, 

She  only  knows  the  language  others  use. 

The  common  words  false  lips  too  often 
speak, 

These  lack  the  fire  and  fervor  to  reveal. 

The  fond  affection  Death  alone  can  seal. 

Thou  £^rt  my  soul's  ideal,  pure  and  good. 
In  mind  and    heart,   in  bearing,   speech 
and  mein ; 

A  perfect  type  of  noble  womanhood — 
Kind  as  an  angel,  royal  as  a  queen, 

Dispensing  blessings,  free  as  sun  and  air, 

To  lighten  burdens  weaker  ones  must  bear. 


Earnest  in  effort,  prompt  at  duty's  call, 
Forgetting  self  in  giving  others  aid ; 

534 


Lx\DY  OF  GLEN  MYLA. 

With  tender  sympathy  for  great  and  small, 
On  whom  affliction's  heavy  hand  is  laid, 
Adding  to  life  a  beauty  and  a  grace  ; 
Making  the  world  a  brighter,  better  place. 


So,  thou  hast  won  my  loye,  nor  is  it  strange. 
Since,  by  the  cottage  hearth  and  palace  hall, 

I  haye  met  many  women,  in  life's  range, 
But,  never  found  thy  peer,  among  them  all ; 

Thanks  be  to  Him,  by  whom  our  ways  are  set. 

That,  in  His  Providence,  our  paths  have  met. 


If  I  had  power  to  weave  a  subtle  charm 
To  ward  thee  from  all  weariness  and  care. 

To  keep  thee  and  thy  loved  ones  free  from  harm. 
And  make  thy  future  pathway  bright  and  fair, 

No  tear  should  ever  dim  thy  tender  eyes, 

No  shadow  darken  in  th\'  summer  skies. 


No  gall  should  mingle  in  thy  wine  of  life ; 

No  touch  of  time  bedim  thy  sunny  brow. 
Long  years  should  come  and  go,  with  gladness  rife, 

And  leave  thee,  fresh  and  fair,  as  thou  art  now, 
The  center  of  a  happy  household  band  : 
Queen  of  the  fairest  home  in  all  the  land. 

The  world,  so  full  of  trouble,  loss  and  stain. 
Uncertain  shadows,  unavailing  fears, 

535 


LADY  OF  GLEN  MYLA. 

Where  Hope  is  false,  and  Love  begirt  by  pain, 

And  every  human  path  bedewed  with  tears, 

Should  be  to  thee  as  lovely,  as  sublime. 

As  Eden,  in  the  morning  hours  of  time. 
f 

I  pray  thee,  do  not  deem  as  idle  praise 
This  honest  tribute  of  a  loving  heart ; 

I  crave  no  pardon  for  my  homely  lays, 

Save  that  they  do  not  paint  thee  as  thou  art — 

Gentle,  impassioned,  tender,  warm  and  sweet — 

Alas,  I  find  the  picture  incomplete. 

It  lacks  the  finer  tints,  the  nameless  grace. 

The  dainty  lights  and  shades,  that  come  and  go 

Like  fitful  sunshine  o'er  thy  gentle  face. 
As  gracious  tides  of  feeling  ebb  and  flow. 

Far  better.  Lady,  could  my  muse  express. 

The  tout  ensemble  of  thy  loveliness, 

If,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  I  loved  thee  less. 

Indianapolis,  June,  1879. 


536 


BY  MRS.  ADA  BOLTON  SMITH. 

Nur  Liebe  darf  der  Liebe  Blumen  hTechen."—Sc/u'ner. 


^WAS    Christmas    Eve.       Within    a    Gothic 
church, — 
^I^Mh^-^^  Whose  walls  were  wreathed  with  fragrant 
^      '"  '  evergreen, 

And  holy  words  in  living  verdure  shrined, 
With  many  friends  we  waited  for  the  pair 
Upon  whose  love  that  hour  would  set  its 

seal. 
Then    pealed   the    organ    forth    a   joyous 

strain  ; 
And  with  the  music's  thrill  we  saw  them 

come. 
From  out  the  setting  of  her  snowy  veil 
The  pearl-pure   face   of  the  young   bride 

looked  forth. 
Fairer  and  sweeter  than  the  orange  buds 
That  bound  the  silken  waves  of  her  dark 
hair. 

537 


THE  BRIDAL. 

Mid  was  the  soft  eyes'  lustre  'neath  the  lids 

Whose  downcast  lashes  swept  her  virgin  cheek  ; 

But  round  her  tender  mouth  there  dwelt  a  look 

Of  rest  unutterable  and  perfect  trust. 

And  he  in  whom  she  trusted  walked  by  her 

In  all  the  pride  of  manhood.     On  his  brow 

Shone  the  clear  light  of  tenderness  untold, 

And  deathless  love  for  her,  his  own,  his  bride ! 

The  wondrous  words  were  said — she  bore  his  name — 

When,  turning  from  the  altar,  slow  they  passed 

Beyond  my  sight  into  their  bright  new  world. 

I  did  not  follow  with  the  smiling  train 

Of  those  who  gave  them  joy ;  for  silent  tears 

Were  in  my  eyes,  and  on  my  lips  a  prayer 

To  Him,  who  came  to  men  upon  this  night. 

For  these,  my  friends,  that  He  would  bless  their  home 

With  health,  success,  and  perfect  happiness ; 

And  crown  their  lives  with  every  heavenly  gift. 

Christmas,  1862. 


^, 


538 


^^4f.^^^^^^  ^ 


c^  ^  ^^^  e^  t^  c^   ^  ^^  ^ 


^^iNTjljEMGl^Y-feE^^^^PieNEERi^ 


RIEND  of  the  olden  time ! 

•^   With  the  kind  messenger  that  came  to-day, 

^Thy  weary  feet  have   turned   from    earth, 

away, 
^  To  some  celestial  clime. 

He  found  thee,  full  of  years — 
Long  years  of  alternating  light  and  shade ; 
Of  hopes  that  budded,   blossomed   but   to 
fade. 

Bright  smiles  and  bitter  tears. 

Of  those  whose  lots  were  cast 
Amidst  the   Western  wilds,   when    savage 

wrath 
Left  death  and  desolation  in  its  path, 

Thou  wert  among  the  last. 

<=Mrs.  Mary  Warrick  Brown. 


539 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  PIONEER. 

Among  the  last  who  stood, 
Where  rang  the  w  ar-w  hoop  in  the  border  strife. 
When  gleaming  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife 

Were  red  with  kindred  blood. 


When  thou  hadst  seen  the  dome, 
The  stately  mansion,  mart  and  city  rise, 
As  by  enchantment  'neath  the  sunny  skies, 

That  spanned  the  Red  Man's  home ; 

When  peace  and  plenty  crowned 
With  Christian  temples,  forums,  college  halls. 
The  lovely  land  that  ancient  legend  calls, 

"The  dark  and  bloody  ground." 

Our  Father's  kind  behest 
Called  thee  from  weary  days  and  nights  of  pain 
To  thy  reward,  the  guerdon  and  the  gain 

Of  endless  peace  and  rest. 

The  friends  who  met  of  yore 
Around  thy  board  and  hearth,  in  converse  sweet, 
When  hand  clasped  hand  and  hearts  in  union  beat. 

Shall  meet  there,  nevermore. 

From  thine  accustomed  place 
The  sunshine  of  the  olden  days  is  flown — 
We  miss  a  kimllx  woid.  a  pleasant  tone, 

A  dear,  laniiliar  face. 

540 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  PIONEER. 

Sleep  on  !     In  coming  years, 
The  West,  the  proud,  the  beautiful,  the  free, 
Upon  her  brightest  page  shall  number  thee, 

Among  her  pioneers. 

Farewell,  true,  generous  heart  I 
Amidst  the  precious  things  we  treasure  here, 
The  priceless  jewels.  Memory  holds  most  dear. 

We  shrine  thy  name  apart. 

Love  mourns  and  would  repair 
The  ties  that  Death's  relentless  hand  hath  riven. 
But  Faith  unveils  her  brow,  looks  up  to  Heaven, 

And  joys  to  see  thee  there. 


541 


W  J>0^  ^  Jif  ^  ^0. 


^^To  vflllgg  vE^TPERvP^IiEGaE, 


JJV^~ 


OF   GENEVA,  SWITZERLAND. 


HAT  shall  I  call  thee  ?      My  sunbeam,  my 
star  ? 
Na}^  one  is  too  transient,  the  other  too  far. 


Shall  I  call  thee  a  dew-drop,  a  joy  a  de- 
light, 
A  rose-bud,  a  song-bird,  a  beautiful  sprite? 


Nay,  love,  I  will  call  thee,  a  rainbow  that 

spanned 
My  heart  and  my  life,  in  a  lone,  foreign 

land, 

For  tender  and  faithful,  far-reaching  and 

free 
As  the  sign  of  God's  promise,  thy  love  was 

to  me. 


542 


TO  MISS  ESTHER  MALEGUE. 

If  I  knew  how  the  earth  woos  a  bright,  summer  shower ; 
How  the  sunshine  makes  love  to  a  tender,  young  flower ; 

If  I  knew  the  sweet  speech  of  the  odorous  breeze, 
When  it  dimples  with  kisses  the  star-lighted  seas ; 

Knew  the  murmurous  music,  so  tender  and  deep 
Of  the  waters  that  lull  the  white  lilies  to  sleep  ; 

If  I  knew  how  the  sprite  in  a  rose-tinted  shell, 
Sings  its  loves  and  its  losses  so  wildly  and  well ; 

I  could  tell  thee,  O  purer  and  fairer  than  these, 
How  devoutly  I  love  thee,  my  fair  Genevese. 

If  I  were  a  knight,  brave  as  knight's  were  of  old, 
I  would  bear  thee  away  to  some  beautiful  hold. 

Where  care  never  troubles,  and  Love  counts  the  hours, 
In  perfect  repose  on  a  dial  of  flowers. 

In  this  fairy-like  palace,  so  richly  arrayed 
With  tapestry  woven  of  sunshine  and  shade — 

With  columns  of  cedar  and  daisy  prankt  floors, 
High  Gothic-arched  windows  and  cr3'stalline  doors, 

With  towers  and  terraces,  lofty  and  fair. 

And  gold-gleaming  banners  afloat  on  the  air, — 

Midst  the  music  of  waters,  the  singing  of  birds, 

I  would  woo  thee  with  kisses  far  sweeter  tlian  words. 

And,  trusting  Our  Father,  as  long  years  went  by. 
Hand  in  hand  we  would  live,  heart  to  heart  we  would 
die. 

543 


^Jfb  vfpEvQaiET :  ^a  JIMER :  ¥wmi6P¥. 


3i«- 


^N  the  quiet  summer  twilight, 

Midst  the  glowing  crimson  bars 
That  the  fading  sunlight  painted, 
Glimmered  out  two  beauteous  stars. 


Both  w^ere  bright,  but  one  was  peerless, 
And  I  fondly  named  it  thme  ; 

As  they  seemed  to  love  each  other, 
Fancy  called  the  pale  one  mine. 

Lovingly  they  shone  together, 

Making  heaven  around  them  bright, 

While  the  silent  hours  went  trooping 
Throujjh  the  solemn  halls  of  niffht. 


Till  a  leaden  cloud  came  over. 
Like  a  messenger  of  doom, 

And  concealed  the  brightest  jewel 
In  the  foldings  of  its  gloom. 

544 


IN  THE  QUIET  SUMMER  TWILIGHT, 

Sadly  gazed  I  on  the  reft  one, 
When  its  spirit's  mate  had  flown ; 

And  I  deemed  its  Hght  grew  paler 
As  it  trembled  on  alone. 


And  a  fervent  prayer  to  Heaven 
Whispered  from  my  inmost  heart, 

That  the  pale,  destroying  angel 
Might  not  rend  us  thus  apart. 


For  I  would  not  wish  to  linger. 
Like  that  little  star  above, 

By  the  wayside  of  existence, 

When  there's  nothing  left   to  love. 

545 


^-35 


ir^ 


THE  STORY  OF 


-^  WpE :  SlfD :  0;^K :  0F :  E  W :  Cr©FT.:1«- 


SAID;  ''O  ancient  tree,  I   have  made  my 
home  near  thee, 
And  claim  thee  for  a  friend,  as  well  as 
neighbor, 
Till  weary  heart  and  brain  shall  rtnd  sur- 
cease of  pain, 
When    God   releases   me   from   life   and 
labor. 

**  Thou  seemest  staunch  and  whole  in  root, 
heart,  branch  and  bole. 
Yet  thou  hast  lived  unknown,  unnumbered 


And  curious    things,  I   ween,    thy   dryad 
eyes  have  seen, 
That  are  not  written  in  historic  pages. 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM  CROFT. 

"  And,  on  these  pleasant  eves,  I  hear  thy  bright,  young 
leaves 

Whispering,  confidingly,  to  one  another. 
And  deem  they  could  unfold  tales  that  no  lip  has  told. 

Tales  from  the  memory  of  their  fine,  old  mother. 


*'Tell  me  a  legend,  pray,  of  some  forgotten  day ; 

A  strange  romance,  a  quaint,  unwritten  stor}- 
Of  some  fair  Indian  maid  wooed  and  won  beneath  thy 
shade, 

By  some  tall,  tawny  brave,  in  painted  glory." 


Then,  whence  I  could  not  tell,  a  murmur  rose  and  fell, 
In  tones  too  low  and  liquid  to  be  human  ; 

547 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM  CROFT. 

And  then,  methought,  I  heard,  like  song  of  some  rare 
bird, 
A  voice  that  seemed  to  say,  **  Listen,  O  woman  I  " 

"There  was  a  maiden  fair,  with  midnight  eyes  and  hair. 
And  crimson  broidered  tunic  on  her  bosom, 

With  voice  Hke  music  sw^eet,  and  dainty  Htde  feet 
That  scarcely  stirred  the  odors  from  a  blossom. 


*'  Impulsive,  tender,  wild,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Crowned  with  the  gentle  graces  Nature  taught  her, — 

In  bearing  and  in  mien,  regal  as  befits  a  queen. 
In  sooth,  she  was  a  mighty  Sachem's  daughter. 

*'  She  came  when  rich   perfumes,  soft  lights  and   fmry 
glooms 

Made  rich  and  redolent,  a  summer  even — 
Came  when  the  full-orbed  moon,  kissing  the  brow  of  June, 

Went  with  the  stars  around  the  walls  of  Heaven. 

'*  And,  sitting  at  my  feet,  she  sung  so  sadly  sweet. 
That  all  my  leaves  bent  tenderly  above  her — 

Sung  of  some  bitter  strife,  that  shadowed  her  young  life. 
Between  her  warlike  kindred  and  her  lover. 

**Then  turned  to  mo  and  smiled  like  a  self-forgetful  child. 
By  some  new  joy  <  i  all  its  sorrow  cheated. 

And  sung  a  tender  strain  w  iih  a  soft  and  low  refrain. 
That  all  the  enanidrd  tauns  and  fays  repeated. 

548 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM  CROFT. 

*' '  Come  love,  come,  the  night  dews  weep  ; 

The  fair  young  flowers  are  all  asleep, — 
The  bees  have  borne  their  treasures  home. 
The  birds  are  dreaming — come,  love,  come. 

*'  '  Come,  love,  come  ;  the  moon  is  high, 

The  camp-fires  burn  along  the  sky. 
Fire-flies  dance  in  the  purple  gloom, 
And  I  am  lonely — come,  love,  come. 

''  '  Come  love,  come — the  moonbeams  spread 

A  golden  path  for  thee  to  tread ; 
The  softest  light  and  fairest  bloom 
Await  and  w^oo  thee — come  love,  come.' 

"  Then,  murmured  she,  a  name,  and  silently  there  came, 
From  out  the  ambush  of  some  leafy  cover, 

A  chief  renowned  and  brave*,  of  aspect  grand  and  grave, 
And  tenderly  her  dark  eyes  met  her  lover. 

*"  O,  bird  of  sweetest  song,  hast  thou  waited  for  me  long? 

I  came  with  flying  feet  to  thee,  Wynona — 
On  the  war-path,  in  the  chase,  I  have  only  seen  thy  face, 

Only  heard  thy  tender  speaking,  dear  Wynona. 

*' '  Come  love,  away  with  me,  I  will  make  a  lodge  for  thee 

And  cover  it  with  rarest  scented  cedar. 
Bring  mosses  soft  and  sweet  to  spread  beneath  thy  feet, 

And,  for  thy  bed,  the  white  down  of  the  eider, 

549 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM  CROFT. 

"  *  With  shining  beads  Til   deck  thy  poHshed  arms  and 
neck — 
ril  dress  the  finest  skins  for  thine  adorningr : 

CD    ■ 

Despoil  the  birds  of  air  of  their  plumes  to  crown  thy  hair, 
And  waken  thee  with  kisses  every  morning. 

**  *  Fll  hunt  the  honey  bee  o'er  prairies  wild  and  free, 
And  bring  to  thee  his  hoards  of  golden  treasure. 

And  by  word  and  action  prove  that  I  love  thee  with  a  love 
That  finds  in  human  speech  no  name,  no  measure. 

"  '  O,  fly  with  me  to-night — fly  by  this  mystic  light — 

My  bark  canoe  floats  idly  on  the  river ; 
I  have  store  of  venison  there,  nuts  and  berries  ripe  and  rare. 

And  a  hundred  ready  arrows  in  my  quiver.' 

'• '  O,  dearest  Osselo,  my  heart  is  fain  to  go. 

But,  ah,  my  tribe  would  follow  fast  to  slay  thee ; 

Wait,  yet  a  little  while,  my  sire's  approving  smile, 
Wait  but  another  moon,  O  love,  I  pray  thee. 

*' '  Then  meet  me  here  again,  and  by  this  bitter  pain, 
And  by  the  love  whose  tenderness  thou  knowest — 

By  all  things  good  and  tnie,  by  blessed  Manitou, 
I  pledge  myself  to  follow  where  thou  goest. 

** '  O,  silver-throated  bird,  I  take  thee  at  thy  word — 
Pleading  so  tender,  sweet,  brooks  no  denial, 

I  will  come,  as  thou  hast  said,  I  will  come  alive  or  dead. 
With  love  grown  stronger,  fonder  through  the  trial.' 

550 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM-CROFT. 

'•The  chieftain  spoke  no  more,  but  I  saw  his  heart  was 
sore, 
And  to  Wynona's  eyes  the  big  tears  started, 
As  she  turned,  with  quivering  face,  from  her  lover's  fond 
embrace, 
And  to  the  lodge-fires  of  her  tribe  departed. 

''That  month  was  long  to  me,""  whispered  the  old  oak 
tree, 

"  The  moon  w^as  longer  than  her  wont  in  waning, 
And  when  her  light  was  gone,  the  days  went  slowly  on, 

And  all  my  leaves  made  murmurs  of  complaining. 

"  x\t  length  the  moon  rose  high  in  the  star-crown  of  July, 
Lighting  dim  vistas  down  the  forest  mazes. 

Building,  with  arch  and  aisle,  a  faiiy  palace  pile. 
Hung  with  the  tapestry  of  silver  hazes. 

"  '  It  is  their  tryst,'  I  said,  and  listening  heard  a  tread, 
That  but  a  falling  leaf  could  match  for  lightness, 

And  then  the  peerless  form  of  the  maiden  wild  and  warm. 
Brought  back  to  mv  lone  life  beauty  and  brightness. 

"  '  It  is  over  now,'  she  sighed,  'I  have  conquered,  I  am 
free — 

No  power  on  earth  my  soul  from  his  can  sever. 
And  whatever  fate  betide.  I  am  here  to  be  his  bride, 

To  follow  him  through  life,  through  death,  forever.' 

"Then,  from  a  leafv  screen  of  paly  gold  and  green. 
The  chieftain  strode  and  said  :  *  Welcome,  Wynona  ! 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM-CROFT. 

There  is  no  star,  no  moon,  no  dawn,  no  sun  at  noon, 
When  thou  art  hidden  from  mine  eyes,  Wynona. 

** '  Now,  dearest,  thou  art  mine,  by  a  promise  and  a  sign, 
All  mine,  Wynona,  to  support  and  cherish  : 

And  if  ever  I  should  prove  recreant  to  thy  tender  love. 
By  the  red  hand  of  the  foeman  may  I  perish. 

*'*Come — '      Not  another  word  from  his  lips  was  ever 
heard  : 

A  murderous  arrow%  through  the  forest  flying. 
Found,  with  its  venomed  dart,  his  brave  and  noble  heart, 

And  at  Wynona's  feet  the  chief  fell  dying. 

*'  She  did  not  shriek  with  fear,  speak  a  word,  nor  shed  a 
tear, 

But  her  midnight  eyes  grew  fixed  in  stony  horror 
Upon  the  cold,  dead  face,  still  lighted  with  the  grace 

Of  that  triumphant  love.  Death  crowned  with  sorrow. 

'*  *  He  sleeps,*  at  length  she  said,  *  Osselo  is  not  dead 
The  happy  birds  w^ill  waken  him  with  singing ; 

When  morning  lights  the  skies  he  will  open  his  dear  eyes  : 
He  will  waken  when  the  lily-bells  are  ringing. 

**  *  Sleep  love,  sleep — the  morn's  soft  light 
Drifts  over  the  purple  shores  of  Night : 

Round  us  the  shadows  are  cool  and  deep — 
Safe  on  my  bosom,  sleep  love,  sleep. 
552 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM-CROFT. 

"  'Sleep  love,  sleep — the  winds  are  still ; 

There  is  no  murmur  of  fount  or  rill ; 

Above  us  the  stars  their  watch-fires  keep, — 
Safe  on  my  bosom,  sleep  love,  sleep.' 

•'•Fondly,  the  morning  light  kissed  oft'  the  tears  of  night. 
And  made  all  Nature's  pulses  leap  and  quiver, — 

Gave  every  leaf  a  grace,  and  caught  in  its  embrace 
Hill,  valley,  tangled  wold  and  winding  river. 

"And  still  the  chieftain's  eyes  turned  to  the  morning  skies 
Their  deeps  of  darkness  veiled  by  lids  unmoving ; 

Warm  breezes  from  the  South  kissed  his  icy  brow  and 
mouth, 
But  could  not  win  him  back  to  life  and  loving. 

''And  still  Wynona  prest  that  cold  head  to  her  breast, 
In  half  unconscious,  half  bewildered  seeming, — 

Still  pleaded  for  one  word,  from  lips  that  never  stirred. 
And   sadly  sung,  as  if  her  soul  were  dreaming. 

"  'Wake  love,  wake — the  night  is  gone, — 
The  stars  are  hidden  in  the  dawn  ; 

The  glad  birds  sing  in  bower  and  brake ; 

The  sun  is  shining — wake  love,  wake.' 

"At  length,  her  father  came,  caressed  her,  called  her  name  ; 

Said  :  *Come  away  Wynona,  O  my  daughter ! 
See,  Osselo  is  dead,  his  life,  his  soul  has  fled 

To  hunting  grounds  beyond  the  silent  water.' 

553 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM-CROFT. 

'*Then,  from  her  sad,  dark  eyes  flashed  a  look  of  wild  sur- 
prise, 

As  if  from  some  long,  troubled  sleep  awaking. 
She  gave  the  cold,  dead  face,  a  long  and  fond  embrace, 

And,  by  her  look,  I  knew  her  heart  was  breaking. 

*'  *If  Osselo  is  dead,  let  me  die  too,  she  said — 
There  is  no  might  on  earth  our  souls  to  sever ; 

By  all  things  true  below,  by  blessed  Manitou, 
I  pledged  myself  to  follow  him  forever.' 

*'  She  said,  and   quick   as  thought,  her  cunning  fingers 
caught 

A  dainty  dagger  from  its  wampum  cover. 
Turned  to  the  morning  sun — one  stroke — the  deed  is  done. 

*  I  come,'  she  said,  and  died  beside  her  lover. 

**  'Alas  ! '  her  father  cried,  '  my  silver  dove,  my  pride, 
Who  now  will  light  the  lodge-fire  for  Yoholo  ? 

Who  will  greet   him  from  the  chase  with  tender,  loving 
face, 
And  dress  the  feast  of  venison  for  Yoholo  ? 

** '  Who  will  waken  him  at  morn?     Who  grind  the  yellow 
corn? 
And  broider  wampum  leggings  for  Yoholo  ? 
Ah,  the  medicine-man  was  right,  Maumee's  curse  has 
wrought  its  blight ; 
There  is  darkness  in  the  wigwam  of  Yoholo.' 

554 


THE  OLD  OAK  OF  ELM-CROFT. 

**They  dressed  the  maid  with  care,  and  bound  her  raven 
hair 
With  man\^  a  shining  bead  and  crimson  feather — 
Gave  the   chief  his   pipe   and   bow    for   the  journey    he 
must  go, 
And  laid  them  down  to  dreamless  rest  together. 

**Then  wailing  all  day*  long,  went  the  sorrowful  death- 
song, 
To  waft  them  safely  o'er  the  silent  water — 

Brave  warriors  bowed  in  grief  for  their  young  and  noble 
chief. 

And  Love  lamented  for  the  Sachem's  daughter. 

''Many  an  age  has  come  and  gone,  and  still  the  world 
moves  on, 

But  of  all  the  living  then  who  knew  and  loved  them, 
I  onl}'  now  abide  where  the  lovers  lived  and  died. 

And  faithfulh'  keep  watch  and  ward  above  them. 

*'  But  when  that  night  in  June  brings  back  the  full-orbed 
moon 
To  flood  the  forest  reaches  with  her  glor\-. 
They   come   without    a    sound   from   the  happy   hunting 
ground, 
And  sitting  here,  rehearse  their  own  sad  story.'* 


555 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewab  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


OCT  23  m?  8  1 


{KCfltQ   0CTl6  7?'4  Ptti  a 


LD2lA-40m-8,'72 
(Qll738l0)476-A-82 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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M191805 


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Ll 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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